Ore

We pick things up,
change them
walk away or notice

how they affect
something deep
inside us,

use them as a charm,
a symbol for good luck,
for direction, a reminder,

and to ward off bad spirits,
bury them in our lawns,
the flower beds

amongst the geraniums,
in the corners
along picket fences.

Then dig them up
before we leave the house
we call home,

all the while
we are keen to find,
one to define our dreams.

We never return
to lift the floorboards
we hid our gems under,

only recover memories,
make maps and send out
our lovers into the darkness

to search for them,
clutching long spades
our hand drawn instructions,

on how to locate our wishes,
or how things should be left,
when they’ve done

our work, in search
of the next precious object
to rescue us from ourselves.

Only then will we discover,
what we really wanted
was continual acceptance.