Our Sycamore is 90 years old, but comforts us
Dark shadows appear
In odd places
Winter lingers in
Unfinished space
Where the area is damp, glib
Raw and slippery
The dining room sits and waits
For someone
Walls are painted a different color
I am in the wrong place
I stand
Waiting for nothing
This house, too still
Quietly mourns the loss
I can't see the light
I can’t communicate
I can't walk on water
I can see but I can't feel
I lock the door behind me
And share nothing,
And wait here
in this dark shadow
Awkward and powerful.
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 9:10 AM UTC
Our Sycamore is 90 years old, but comforts us
Dark shadows appear
In odd places
Winter lingers in
Unfinished space
Where the area is damp, glib
Raw and slippery
The dining room sits and waits
For someone
Walls are painted a different color
I am in the wrong place
I stand
Waiting for nothing
This house, too still
Quietly mourns the loss
I can't see the light
I can’t communicate
I can't walk on water
I can see but I can't feel
I lock the door behind me
And share nothing,
And wait here
in this dark shadow
Awkward and powerful.
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