It started small
just one dish left on the counter
one suitcase sitting by the sofa
one newspaper strewn on the carpet
when eyelids were down
from the depression
of their loss
that started the pile
overwhelming their soul
leaving them buried
in their possessions
till only a path
through the mountain of stuff
allowed a sliver of hope
to escape
until the hoarder
closed their door.
The family had to move so they gathered their possessions
loaded into labeled boxes and overstuffed laundry baskets
and they stuffed their cars to the tops of the windows.
When the house was empty the yard was cleared
of toys and hoses and the family took one last look
and drove away leaving only their memories.
But limp in the backyard were their forgotten hostas
huddled together in a tight cluster
growing green and striped in beauty.
The cleaner came to wash out the old and paint in the new
and as he was packing his supplies the new owners arrived
taking one look at the yard they complained.
“Get those weeds out of here, too.” Then they went inside.
So the cleaner took his shovel and sliced between the bulbs
gently placing them into plastic bags in the back of his truck.
He brought them home to his wife who exclaimed, “Hostas!”
Soon transplanted and watered in their new beds,
the hostas sighed and drank it in. They were finally home.