Unfinished books lay weighed down

On an eight year old desk collecting dust and unwritten novels.

The cold breeze dripping through the open

Window where I used to be able to balance on the sill. 

There stands the back door where I slammed my index finger in the doorway

Where we both watched the blood drip down, down

To stain the gray rock path that guides you to 

The monstrous ivy covered tree that used to be so big,

Hiding a forgotten garden gate.

I dig up thrown clothes, burying a veiled jewelry box 

Holding secret trinkets from a passing soul. 

I reach a shaking hand up to caress my cheek

Feeling burning tears staining my face red. 

I turn my head from the carnage to smile sadly

At the men singing about the summer breeze

Under my bedroom door. 

Out the window I hear the owls call out to their own

Spinning to find them perched on our black fence 

Fixing me with a knowing gaze full of everything I have seen.

The squirrels and rabbits chitter as they run circles around the creeping myrtle,

Discovering where I used to pull thin chive strands from the ground,

Idly shredding them between my teeth 

As my head tilts up to the waning evening sky. 

I peer down into a sandbox flooded with rain water

My mother’s forgotten tea sitting patiently in the reflection,

Doomed to be dumped down the drain.

I finally breath to close my eyes,

Falling asleep to the sound of crickets

And waking to the sounds of morning doves.

I pause my blinking to peer out of a lonely bedroom window

And watch the red-eye flights drift by

Under the shingle roof

Of a brick house.