garden/Poetry/Ceiling fan.md

the new ceiling fan uncovers old stains and old pains we mop and mop and mop away. old hurts are blurred in my mind like daffodils, waiting for their turn to speak at the table. my cargo short days have turned into fable, i don’t remember but i still get the chills. on the shelf i keep all the things which stay, and on that thought whirr all the trains.