Tag: Poetry

Ruins

A raven sits on top

the crumbling stone

 and as I pass, I wonder,

was the hearth beneath?

Built two centuries back, it’s tucked in with pine trees, wild rosebushes, and weeds. Only half of the roof remains, the inside houses dandelions, field mice, ants, and a sapling. Who was there? What did they do? How did it happen the house fell into ruins? When the steps began to creak, and the joints swayed with the wind, or a thunderous clap brought with it a northeasterly breeze that blew the roof off where there was no need for a chimney sweep—did they walk away and leave the house to decay? But that’s tragic and may not have been the case. There may have been another choice I sometimes forget—maybe they stayed? Windows gone and exposed, hope crumbles, and yet—the foundation holds.

FIFTEEN YEARS

No card, call, on my birthday. No, From Us, To Him labels on gold wrapped paper that cover boxes. At night, dizzying lights spin like a mirror ball against snow bloated trees and pin hole stars. No world events—did you hear what’s happened? What about that? Solar and wind and electric cars? How do they run?

Yes, time had passed, and I babbled on about you. Then, no, no—

In a chair, I tell your story, the clouds of smoke, you’re fourty-plus year habit. It crept up like a hand over a crypt that poked me in the eye and made my cheek twitch. It’s been fifteen years—what the hell is the matter? I blink the tears, take a breath, and straighten in my chair. No, no, yes, I’m fine. Yes, yes, I’m fine . . . this is the rhythm of time . . .