A wagon wheel, a whiskey barrel, a window box so quaint,
Sit in the midst of chaos there and all could use some fresh paint,
The things we looked at long ago as bounty without measure,
Has now become worn out like us, but someone else’s treasure.
We save and hoard those simple things, we refuse to let them go,
But when there is no room for more, you hope for a tornado,
To blow those things both far and wide, to scatter amidst the gust,
To carry them to someone else, before your walls start to bust.
Those things don’t really mean too much, when you have two sets of each,
And even if it’s just one piece, and in someone else’s reach,
They’ll find in it some usefulness, and make it their very own,
Don’t be afraid to toss things out, you will reap what you have sown.