Harvest 
 
Harvest A line of light slinks slow across his lids. An open palm floats tenderly over to touch, finding the cold sheet - A hideous inward thunder. His slow foot slides silent into her old slipper, His bare sole touches the floor  Through holes her feet knew  Down habitual stairs into the locked cell of the day. On all sides, objects keening: A mirror now mute where once each preened privately for each. One lies here now where once two sat. Dusty plants dying back with him. The kettle boils, he brews half a pot; Drinks half a cup; The radio forecasts winds and waves, wombs and woes,  From Finisterre  To anywhere. Still, something was known, even if it was only. Still, it was. And this dry residue, stale lingering aroma, tedious round of waking  and waiting  Can’t dismiss  Such singularity. The Old Dog Web Log
Friday, March 19, 2010