This is an undated poem found in an old, old folder, the fragile paper yellowed and water stained, the words typed and corrected with big Xs and a scribble or two, and curious spacing of the lines conveying more information. I’ve re-typed it for you, for better readability on this web site.

It would be nice to take
   out of the past
      out of my days
         out of the bin
            where such things are stored
to take each little gew-gaw
and to scrape with infinite patience and care
   to scrape the patina of apparent significance
from each person and event, not to mention each thing
   (a butterfly collection begun but not attended to for long,
    a book of verse begun at age twelve and lost,
    a brief and exhilarating exploration of Mozart and Cervantes
       in whom I hoped to find something which I forgot while searching),
and to recognize the original pearl which I encysted,
or to let the caterpillar bound in silk
   out of its cocoon, to spread its wings and continue to grow
   as it would if I let it alone and only looked.
If I scraped them clean, they could exist without me,
   I could lift them out of pockets,
         purses with strings drawn tight,
         secret folds in my mind that I might other ways use.
Who knows, the moth might fly still.
And if it is a butterfly, that too is good.
###

Patrick

Patrick Meadows 1934 – 2017.