Who that life was
is clear: the wrist that moved
near the table, the white dress
in the shadow, sidestepping the square
sunlight on the floor lest it burn
the hem of it. Apples are pared
and notes sent and the black
stud is kept in the stable.
Fires light her pillow.
Morningtimes the garden smokes.
September. September. September.
Doors are kept ajar,
but only so. The circus is outside
the windows. The bread rises,
jelly is put in jars,
the hand is on the newel.
Shoes glide up the stairs,
and the small attic burns.”
-- R.G. Vliet
And one more from Vliet:
“We all live
in the same garden, the iris stalks
that squeaked when we pulled them,
the weighted brambles, over hands stained
by raspberries. Sunlight rustles the grass
and the angel waits with his hands in his lap.
This week's Poetry Friday Round-Up is at Lisa's Blog.