Finding old stuff-or excavating by accident

Day three of morning pages is done. I was using an old notebook. I have many, many journals in different stages of their lives, some in my bookshelf, some on my worktable and some in my bedside table that date back to 1972. I had thought that I would make an artist date and go out and but a new spiral bound note book but rather than put off starting I just picked up an old one, which was lying around, half empty and forgotten, and used it to begin my morning pages. I did not look at the contents until today. Day three.This is what I found. undated

It is hard work
all that forgetting
erasing all the evidence
after getting to the root of it all

saving what is worthy and good
of some use,
and piling what's not in cords
like lumber

empty vessels now incapable of harming
you
but dead ghostly-
you have to keep an eye out
lest one move and reach out and grab you

hard work all of that forgetting
and the vigilance
& the separating & the separating & the separating
hard work guarding all those fissures and renumerations
those piles of bodies like logs like corpses only they are
alive
only just dormant

knowing this is enought to make you sleep light
and dream of coloring in the lines
dream cats and others on the page knowing you are
bartering with your potential
safety equals failure

giving up that vigil
will cost you
consume you
all those fissures filled and
heaving with ghosts
not dead just dormant

lies as widespread as the roots and limbs of of sturdy green ivy
climbing up a wall
finding every fissure
to fill with itself

it is hard work
all of this forgetting
when all of this history is embodied
but not spoken
acknowledged in a dream with a silent nod from a ghost
hard work to be the keeper
ever vigilant
the post is remote
the renumeration is nil