and cold upon on an October
hearth of unwashed ruddy stone,
illuminated by the crinkled
lore of a child's knotted art.
A spiced orange candle
flickers in the light
of a setting sun, not seen.
The smell of an old book
devoid of linear logical thought
tangles emotive emissions,
unleashing the saline dripping
like a wash of unsobbed tears.
Rain lashes at windows
in tapping cadence
with the swallow of
a drainpipe's belch;
a backlash of rushing leaves
is heard through the windowpane.
No clocks are ticking
in the timeless luxury
of a plush pillowed couch.
A stoic velveteen rabbit
twitches as the yellowed pages
are lovingly captured and turned
into a tapestry of transcribed loss.
A sonorant sigh acknowledges a sentiment:
Ah.....Proust take me home.
No comments:
Post a Comment