there's an empty window sill
in the falling of the misty gray light
in tattered streaks.
how can the sun be made *****/?/
when the purest eyes blink
softly to smile at the ground
we can feel the ache
between the cracks of gravel
the earth straining beneath us,
groaning
howling maybe
with a wish for the
loneliness to be a white washed
school house
filled with brass bells ringing
and echoing laughter from light hearted children
with their rosy cheeks.
i miss my mother's rocking chair
and her arms,
stable branches in the brittle winter.