Her Little House

Lamps in stained glass
Little pools of gold
Like islands of ossified silence
Low seats and cushions on the floor…
..to keep her from drifting away.

And the fragrant air is heavy with unsaid words..

She cleans the counter tops
With her little yellow duster
As she tries to muster
The strength
….to gather her Uncollected Thoughts.

That no shelf can hold….

in between

Somewhere in between my coffee and my bath…

Some half remembered smell
Fills memories in my nostrils
And I think of easier times…(or were they?)
Of you…
Your way with words..
Your silences
Your advances & my retreats
Your opinions & my reproaches
Your victories & my defeats
And I try to fathom
Every wraith, ghost and phantom
In my head…

Somewhere in between my bath and bed.

...with bated breath

I brace myself in solitude
for just one sound
among a sonorous multitude.

I strain to hear it’s delight
like a little girl waiting to hear
the tooth fairy’s footsteps in the night.

I listen as I embark
on a lengthy battle with sensibilities and
silent raging storms in the endless dark.

I don’t dare breathe
For fear that the shallowest whisper
Might cause it’s retreat

For I’ve heard sometimes love arrives like that..
It’s sound the solitary plop...
Of a teardrop on a muddy lake.