52/365 - 60/365

Stumbling through the house
in the middle of the night
treading carefully
not wanting to wake baby—
yet all doors howl like a dog.
•
A metaphor hides
openly in tonight's storm.
You stand whispering
in the middle of the house
watching the dark with your son.
•
A poem of absence:
in the distance, no train shows.
Only a flat line
of the horizon spinning
forward into the landscape.
•
Twelve books remain closed,
as the outside settles, close—
and leans at the house.
Every light, in every room,
confirms the open silence.
•
For a brief moment,
standing outside in pitch heat,
you feel the earth shift
forward on its axis as
your father waters his plants.
•
The moan of a truck
passes as we lie in bed—
a shifting of mood—
slow whine of machinery
fades into the warm distance—
•
Slacked mouthed, a single
bloom opens out in the night—
an exclamation,
or point of witness watching
from the shadows of the room.
•
The back garden wall
dreams of being covered in
a heavy ivy—
to be consumed completely,
to become hidden ruins.
•
A poem of presence:
in my dreams you still enter—
an unwanted ghost
of the past. Firm. Persistent.
Waiting to be acknowledged.