a poem. it rhymes.

There is a tree that I can see when I have myself a look,
it’s frame, the pane, of a window nook.
Surrounded by boxes, hastily packed, too much of stuff, and space we lack
Finding a place for things to go
some we keep
and others to the curb we throw
Items not needed but not past their prime
are left near the stoop for someone to find
so that whoever who happens to glance at the ground
might look upon and consider a treasure found
for recently fortune and I have in such a way met,
in the form of a discarded and beautiful five piece drum set
but before I can hear the rat-a-tat-tat or crash or a boom,
I have to find myself another room
so off to storage for a little while it will go,
until I find a room to rent, then on with the show.
But now it is me and the tree and she’s in the other room,
unpacking boxes, my help she will have soon.