The sighes crept like dust from the star-speckled windows. Ancient blinds pushed aside, creaking; molding lace unraveling with threads spinning gently in the northern winds. Inside the vined, crumbling facade, gnarled eyes peer from peeling wallpaper and cobwebs are hung as tapestries -- taking deep, tolling sips of the ambiance. With a knotted chair purchased for yesterday's lunch at a thrift store, its barely fluted edges worn down with thought. If this is the portent of tomorrow, it is stained with ink and candlewax that carried the sweepings of creation deep into the night.
The House of a Poet
September 1, 2007