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Tucking in the Edges

Half moon shines over the house and a stiff wind has picked up blowing in from the sea down across and over the sweep of rugged hills to the south. Violet night hangs in the air. At nine o clock the day hesitates, appears reluctant to give way to darkness. But it comes nonetheless. It always comes. Down a ways a dog barks and the garden bells chime, but otherwise, no human sound fills the land. I close the gates, the blue wooden gates, close the world out of this house, at least, for the hours to come. I tuck it up and wrap my muslin dreams around it,  a busy spider weaving her web, delicately folding in the threads and tucking in the edges. The windows glow with light. I wonder at them from my distant stance on the driveway. Windows into worlds where people move almost as if in a dream like state. I look in through the glass and almost a sense of regret fills me  as I observe my son pour cereal into a bowl, slow motion froth from milk bubbling to the surface. A spoon clatters against stoneware. Satisfaction settles on his face.  He doesn't see me standing outside looking in. But why should he? I am part of this place, the stones and mortar, the flowers in the jar, the bowl of fruit on the table, the dog snoozing on the bench in the kitchen, the cat on the back of the couch swishing her tail, the sweet sound of a guitar, the creak of a door hinge. No I am not visible because I blend, blend into the colours and the moods of the painting opening up before me.   I look in the windows  for some time, long enough to cause my body to tense with the cold, the chill that forces me to venture indoors. I open the back door and wait for my son to look up and notice me. He does. And then, he walks away.  

Comments
11 Comment count
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Mary P, Another poetic piece.

Like that spider, you poignantly weave the real world and your emotional world together into a seemless web.

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Beautiful

this is.

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poetry

Great eulogy. Align all sentences and it will sound no less then woodwarth's. 'GENIUS'in one word, what you are.

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Jitu, nobody has ever called

Jitu, nobody has ever called me Genius before, not in my entire life. I am flattered. Best, M

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I mean it

I really mean  what I am saying. What is poetry after all? one's genuine feelings in words. And what you have portreyed is nothing but that. I dont think you used a single word, just because you don't know the synonames for it. But it was the most fitted to the feelings burning inside you. Genius you are, nothing less.

                                                                jitu 

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Dear Jitu, I am so

Dear Jitu, I am so appreciative of your words. Yes, sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't work. Best, M

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Kristen and Dennis, I send

Kristen and Dennis, I send you both a thank you for your kind comments. Mp

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Lovely, Mary.

Lovely, Mary.

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Jodi, thank you! M

Jodi, thank you! M

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Very impressive wok, M;

Very impressive wok, M; great atmosphere. I have a small poem called "Looking In" I think I'll send you separately. You might enjoy it.

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Work

Thanks Ron! |Do you find that the best pieces come easily and the worst are typically the  result of,  what feels like a helluva lot of work? If I can clear my mind my words write themselves and if I try too hard the words can seem to be like over cooked spaghetti, gluey, sticky and certainly not al dente! M