Spilling Truth

The truth is
that I had dreams for this room.
I had dreams for every room
that included little voices,
and little feet
that have not yet joined me in this world.

In packing and sorting and purging
I am spilling over with the truth of
what is not
and what may never be
and what was
wished for and wanted.

The truth comes spilling
down my cheeks
in salty rivulets
that make it hard to
remember or
realize or
even understand and accept
that the universe is unfolding
exactly as it should be.

And so I will create.
What I can.
What I am given and allowed.
In place of that
which is barren.