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,
silenced.
-- 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.
6 comments:
Perfect imagery, Glynn. I was right there in that house with you.
Blessings!
There is such sadness in this. And beauty.
old houses carry so much texture in their chipping paint...and memories that still echo....
Great images... especially- dust,
accumulated debris of absence. This is so sad.
Happy 2013, Glynn!
i can feel this one...
Goose bumps, Glynn! So beautiful. I wonder what it will feel like when that laughter is silenced...I think I must make sure I enjoy every pealing chuckle, every loud guffaw while they are here. Happy New Year to you.
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