Dust to Dust
How often I have felt in so many places
That once it was yours, along a street
Of old houses, the faded chinked brick,
The shapes of late afternoon shadows,
Curtains fluttering in an open window
Like a caged bird lifting but never leaving,
Faint light in an upstairs bedroom window
Where later, in the middle of the night,
The moon will pause in front of a mirror
And a gray face will glimmer and fade,
In the webby attic a trunk of a child's clothes
Never worn, pictures turned to the wall,
Down the steep stairs to the dirt cellar,
Dim jars holding a long-neglected garden,
The late sun sifting through a window
And dying into the deep settled dust.
Poetry by countryfog
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Written on 2011-04-14 at 00:32
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