Only when it’s too late
do you realize you never loved your house enough —
never loved its cluttered corners, its
places for sleeping and for
dreaming wide awake; you
never properly examined its cupboards,
the old teacups and new paper
someone left for you
to comfort and explain yourself.

Only when you first glimpse
the outskirts of your exile
do you understand
you never loved your basement
the way you should have,
never appreciated
that underworld of moldy castoffs
you saved for decades
hoarding them for the life
you live in secret.

Only when you are reduced
to wearing slippers day and night
do you realize
you never paid proper homage
to your shoes —
the skinny dancing shoes
with straps around the ankles
and the ordinary working browns,
that tapped out the story of your life
as recklessly as a jazz drummer.

Only when it’s too late
do you realize
that you have failed
the silver maple outside your door;
on most days,
you walked past it,
seeing only surfaces
blind to the luminous network of veins
that underlies everything.