Thursday, December 09, 2004

I hestitate in the silence of morning
House quieted by absent children
You are there, in the slow measured step of the second hand
As it counts out the heartbeats
I listen to the grind of a distant street sweeper
To the Bewick's wren scolding from the spruce
Yes, I know I am late for work, but still
I wait, scanning beneath the hum of the fridge
Between the chinking of tags tossed by an itchy dog
Listening for the emptiness of your death
It lies there in the quiet hush of the house
As if the dust could remind me of your voice

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?