It flits like a morning song bird finding pieces of my memories to build it's nest.
Children giggle above the doorway
leaving smells of rose and hints of cattail remains in my floorboards.
You sweep the house
like a new mother,
protecting and directing.
I am caught in this hologram;
an overworked canvas,
giving rise to the medium beneath.
© Feb 1986 Sonja J. Phinney
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment