It hasn’t changed a bit,
if not for drawers and wardrobe
almost emptied.
But you must look inside
to realize.
The outside can resist
as long as it’s allowed.
A hand waters the two plants.
A gaze tastes the silence.
A cat from the neighborhood
appears on the window-sill,
suddenly, from time to time,
and stares.
At noon
voices in the heart
swarm and loom.
Photographs, dust. The normal
silent mess
of the here-and now, nevertheless.
3 comments:
The final stanza rounds it off beautifully... and also sets it off. Well done.
I like the detail of the cat...
Thank you Dave, as ever.
And thank you Juliet. That cat felt, I thought, the spirit of the five cats that lived on my balcony. The last to die was a glorious Siamese who first had a stroke and four years later fell down from the balcony because his balance was precarious. When he was young he was a real predator, he offered us as a reward pigeons, laying them down on the balcony doorstep, neck broken, to my wife's horror!
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