Runs his hand over flaking paint,
yellow chips breaking from the sill,
adhering to his fingers, dried
edges slightly jabbing
old house, left alone: dust,
accumulated debris of absence,
wallpaper curling to escape
confinement, empty rooms
her room, twelve by twelve box,
window panes broken, fractured.
Still hears her laughter,
-- from The White Cliff Poems
This poem is submitted to Open Link Night at dVerse Poets. The links will be live at 2 p.m. Central time today.
Photograph by George Hodan via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.