Self Portrait with Hard-to-Finish Book

I go through the motions again: fill 
a recycling bag with outworn clothing,

pack old books for donating. I hear
women my age talk about the ways

they are also purging—this word they use,
as though talking about having eaten 

too much then feeling nauseous or 
bloated. Often, my hand hovers, uncertain

of whether I can expend without remorse.
I waver. Which tells me I'm not really ready 

to leave what clearly I can't take with me, 
behind. Make hay, seize the day, eat cake;

use the good china, the real silverware—
because one day water or the burning sun 

will take everything away. And yet I want to play 
with color on paper, touch some sheen to my 

cheeks. I try to mend pages of brittle paper 
in a yellowed book while letting weeds in the garden 

have their way. Don't you also want to turn the pages 
more slowly, so you don't come to the end so soon?