In a home

By A.E. Bayne


There is a Chippendale chair
and a cat
with wily whiskers wavering.

There is an afghan
and a book about the vastness of the sea.

There is rapid rain on the roof, tapping a tinny tempo,
and empty stew pots,
and an empty icebox.

Once there were heavy footsteps climbing the stairs;
now, silence.

In all of these familiar spaces there is absence
that only makes the heart weep and wander,
and days when I sit solemnly
trailing the bending arcs of trees,
lavish limbs leading,
folding and folding.

There is laundry to be sorted and selected,
and shoes rejected by the door where you left them last.

And there is time,
immeasurable time,
interjected.