there's a certain delight

in a delightfully large mess
that one has made oneself
in a space which one loves
of objects one enjoys

to sit alone and smiling
drinking your glass of wine
wearing unseasonable clothing
and gazing at your piles

of fabric scraps
of thrift-store books
of shoes and purses
of mis-matched chairs
of empty cups and kitchen towels
potted plants and pencil jars

gives joy
the joy of having done
the joy of ownership
of having the ability to say
"this have i made,
and so shall it remain
for all that i survey
is rightly mine"

this is sometimes worth more
than order