Mom didn't get to see
our new place,
schedules failed to mesh,
and without warning
next week
became never.
Daily, I curse dust
that collects
on the stained glass skylight
that would have brightened
her eyes,
and the chorus of cicadas
in summer
is no more than a nuisance
that rubs my drums
the wrong way.
How their song
ever enchanted her
escapes my grasp.
Now new is old,
and I've grown to abhor
the sight
of our ornate front door,
a fancy facade
to hide the void that lies inside.
The unhallowed walls of the hall
can't recall
the echo
of a voice they've never heard,
nor will the wretched floors
ever be blessed
by the caress
of her gentle step.
Without her imprint,
this place,
supposedly ours,
can never
ever
become home…
nor can any other.



LinkBack URL
About LinkBacks
Reply With Quote









Bookmarks