Piles and boxes and bags,
no order but random
both as to inside and out,
gathered in haste, grabbed
blindly, the only rule I had some claim.
Books piled in a corner,
tumbling, in the way of the
building of a bookcase there.
But an evening of work, and books —
somewhat sorted – fill it.
Recovery’s like that. A single issue
fades enough to see myriad others
waiting, lurking, scheming.
But working with others, writing,
being willing, and unmanageable
becomes managed, then little by slow,
defect after defect, fear after fear,
chaos yields to serenity.