|Taken on 2.10.13 by |
A Lament: Wind-chimes
Outside my mother's house,
like tuneful broken glass,
The day is cold, the house empty.
The cat meows at the closed door,
the wind pulls at my thin brocaded coat and
I can hardly hear their cheery notes.
The music in my life has been quiet this year,
The wind has shook out each note.
I want to play a different song,
and hear a fiddler's lilting song-and-dance.
But my favorite songs are never ditties,
I like the harmonies
that swell and
This season of loss, this confusing year--
Is only the wind
the bass notes
and soon my song will richer, fuller ring.
The scraps of Sunday's dinner lie strewn over my counters--
The mess of rest.
Beans drying on Plates
White-rimed Spaghetti Pot
Pungent Garlic Press
Syrupy Peach Juice
But the table is cleared,
wiped for a ROOK game, already won.
Now the little people of this house have confiscated the space.
Blankets thrown over and under,
A pillow for a secret book
a whispered reading.
The are surprised when I 'find' them,
When I try to enter their world, I knock my head, adult-like,
on the underbelly of the table.
I'm a clumsy child,
almost an onlooker,
but not too old to experience
Thanksgiving at the Table.