Moving

I always forget that I own a defined number of things
Until, that is, the moving bells ring
Then it's all in boxes, ready to go
Objects to keep, objects to throw

If it's been three years or less than one
It's always an effort until it's done
Filtering each object through my memory
Deciding which ones are still dear to me

And then, and then, it always seems so bare
Seeing my whole life packed away there
That all the extra things I possess
Are sorted, filed, and heavily compressed

It's the finiteness that always strikes my core
That I own this much and not one thing more
Until I reach my next resting place when
I can begin to expand to infinity again