It is red metal. A push broom. Pretty cheap – it cinched in the middle this summer, but the Practical Friend repaired it beyond compare, it is bionic now.
Brooms are pushy. Some have angled bristles, some are straight – but they all push stuff around.
When a clear outlook is needed, brooms sweep troubles aside – or under rugs and beds – if only for awhile. For the industrious, dust pans take it away, but a little is always left behind. That is good too, an unfettered outlook is unnatural.
Brooms are not vacuums, they don’t suck up. Brooms require energy, nothing moves until you do. Life seems like that, but it isn’t.
Brooms collect disparate pieces, gather them. Being in the path of a broom is tidal, like the ocean or emotion – to be swept away – deliriously, horribly, beyond resistance.
It is interesting to notice sometimes where you are being swept, with what, or with whom you are being gathered. No coincidence – dust and sand piles form their own complexities, over time.
A clean sweep, a chance to start over…except for that bit of dark fluff you missed in the corner. A good broom is a powerful thing.
I just went out to sweep some wood chips back toward the mailbox. The red metal bionic broom broke. In a different place, sheared off where the handle meets the head. Done for good this time. The energy is there, but the facility is disconnected.
Sweeping, sweeping, the wind scours summer from my garden, the dust and debris from my drive. A good broom.
Shouldn't...but Do 
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