February 1, 2015

An Unaccompanied House

An unaccompanied house.
Nothing but dark grass,
Darker clouds, withered air
Around.

But the house is warm,
Full of breath and voice,
Full of tender memory
Wrapped in old blankets,
Trapped in the soft glow of lightbulbs
And the stacks of dogeared books.

The rooms are small,
The doors are locked,
The walls keep out the cold shadows of night
And keep in the warm shadows of people.

I stand outside,
Looking in.

I would smile once more
To see one more breath
On the breathless air.

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