It’s come to this, has it? Scouring the paper
for clues, anything
flammable, kindling for the furnace
in the basement of the house
so newly empty?
A child. Likewise, other things:
fences, potted plants, your mother’s
breakfront like an anchor – equally
Words came easily, filled in
for all the cracks. When the wind blew,
only the quietest among us could tell
that anything was wrong.
Now – silence. In the morning,
I cut phrases from the paper –
a grim anniversary still wary of bonds
They litter the un-swept floor.
When I reach for the kettle, the house
rises up as if to mock the ground it stood on.
Photo by Kerry Buckley on flickr