The window,
outlining the sunless, naked walls
once led on fictions of eternal stability.
The house once howled
and the earth beneath drank her tears.
The rug once weaved through the in-betweens of toes
and scratched at the unwashed soles.
Until a morning of new apparel,
of brush painted petals:
a garden of boundless daffodils,
snapped
the weathered timber of aged silence,
bringing golden-cut reverence
of the very warmth and courtesy
he carried.
No comments:
Post a Comment