look at home,

the night is dark
and yet forgetful

warm room with
bodies sound asleep

cosy air breathes
through the windows

as the leaves fall
somewhere in the future

and a rainy day
is on the offering

carelessly stoking
arms of the clock

it's a shelter still
this warm room

filled with things
that will be --

old and dying,

as the leaves fall
somewhere in the future

for enough springs have
come to pass

now that i sit here
looking at old photographs,

visiting home.