The Art of Timing
Why when I had left
this front-most room,
off to bed in solitude,
the embers in the fire,
long-gone cold and ashen;
why have you entered now
through the far-most door,
the lock I’d long since thrown,
rusted out and worn clear through,
crashing to bits and pieces,
when you said hello?
this front-most room,
off to bed in solitude,
the embers in the fire,
long-gone cold and ashen;
why have you entered now
through the far-most door,
the lock I’d long since thrown,
rusted out and worn clear through,
crashing to bits and pieces,
when you said hello?
the poem is a fresh wound, the picture i took and tweaked a bit 2004; lived in that house '81-86, cold, cold winds ... wyoming.
