There is something about the way autumn
light enters this room through the yellow
leaves of the birch. Low and soft, it pads
through this house;
this house with its masks and its china,
its paintings of horses and skies. It touches
my face in the morning. I know it is not you
that I miss,
but loving you, wanting you. Spooned mornings
and naked afternoons, running like children
in the grownup house. The waiting for you
to come home.
--
~ SB =^..^=
http://www.sbpoet.com
http://sb.chatango.com/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/sbmontana/
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