Wednesday, August 24, 2016

Every house has a story

The swish of the fabric of long skirts
and high-collared white blouses
the only sounds of a summer’s day

She feels the slight moisture
beading on her forehead
as she directs the maid in her dusting

She walks to the door, fanning herself
and looks out to the street
with its uninterrupted noonday quiet

She hears the faint clang:
the blacksmith hammering the anvil
a few blocks away in town

She waits, not sure if the waiting
will have its reward, but waiting
nonetheless for a whistled tune,

a throat cleared, the occasional song

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