Worn Bristles

In the closet I lean,

Silent and still,

A giving tool with simple needs.

With bristles worn from years of use,

I dance the dust and grim across the floors.

My partner Marge the housekeeper holds me tight,

Careful not to press down too hard,

Knowing I, too, am aging.

We make the rounds

As she leads me with grace,

Clearing the paths

Through kitchen and hallway,

Bedroom and bath

She is of

 gentle sweep,

making sure there is no hurt,

as we both have fond memories

of children growing,

elderly becoming smaller,

cats and dog passing,

leaving behind crumbs and fallen hair,

seasons coming

and going.

In the soundless night,

When all is at peace,

I rest in my closet corner,

Knowing my essence is akin to a hardwood tree

Nestled in a landscape of need,

Mindful that even in the mundane,

A tool in need becomes

A dutiful beauty,

A gentle steward of worn bristles.