Purge

Purge

In the cold light of morning, the house sighs—
rooms stripped of the clutter that clung like old regret.
Each drawer opened, a silent confession,
papers yellowed, photographs faded,
the weight of yesterday lifted,
tossed into the bin with a resolute clang.

The attic breathes again, rafters exposed,
dust motes dancing in shafts of pale sun,
as forgotten treasures find their final rest—
or are reborn in the flame of a bonfire,
crackling, orange‑tongued, devouring the past.

Outside, the garden undergoes its own purge:
weeds yanked, roots severed, soil turned over,
ready for new seeds to push through the loam.
Even the river, swollen from winter’s thaw,
carries away the debris of stagnation,
its clear current a promise of renewal.

We, too, stand barefoot on the threshold,
hands empty, hearts unburdened,
letting go of the excess that once defined us,
and in the quiet aftermath,
feel the quiet hum of possibility—
a clean slate, a fresh breath,
the gentle, relentless rhythm of purge.