Veranda

March 19, 2010
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The veranda outside my room
overlooks a corner of the ocean
where the horizon swallows the sun at dusk,
and envelopes the platform
in a veil made of the sunset.
A house stands on my veranda,
where the grain of the walls
is made from the light it catches
when the scarlet clouds part,
allowing the final golden rays to penetrate.

The glass of the doors
that open from my bedroom
is a frame for the balcony.
When the curtains on the doors
are drawn back, it appears
that the entire terrace is encased
in a serenity I desire to touch.

When I reach for that light,
all I see is the vista of the ocean
from nothing more than a balcony.
As long as I remain on that stage,
before the sea, the light at dusk
doesn’t linger around the railing’s marble.

You come to find me here,
and step onto the veranda
to pull me away.
A cloud blankets the vermillion sun,
and before leaving,
I pull the curtains over the glass doors,
but I am certain
that again, the light of dusk
becomes a house for the balcony’s silence.





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