The broom of becoming sweeps the house
     The cluttered cobwebs of imagination
     The dust of dreams left behind
     The detritus of habit and dull, dull routine
Are collected, honored and discarded

It is time to gather rugs and whack them
Rain showers of sneezey dirt, and scrub the window's clean
Fill boxes full of categorical imperatives
And leave them on the curb for the bulk of pickups

Oh, I will revel in the Spring of my cleaning
Make way for new channels of energy and flow
Bring light into the darkness I've made of my soul
And speak the new of powers rediscovered and released.