Feeding the birds in winter,
So they might come,
Friends through a window,
At home I have so much space
On empty walls, waiting
For photos, paintings
That now occupy floors,
Waiting for someone,
A golden ring from her,
But the telephone is mute
And boxes are kept and music,
A passion plays all by itself,
In stations set, programmed,
Processions of droll and cross,
Sweet undulations to bare,
Barely listened to.
At home,
Blankets cover chairs,
In the cold that only I know,
How warm the walls seem,
Unadorned, yellow for sun
And red for mausoleum,
There's enough blue
In the sky.