28. Jan, 2017

Home

An October evening
long ago

my grandpa in the cellar
made wine.

The wind whistled among
the naked trees

guests made merry
in the living-room.

At twilight
the sun left behind

a plum-like velvet
in the sky.

Inside
nobody listened

to the stymied voice
of silence;

berries and whipped cream
held

the balance
of all possible worlds.

The hearth was warm
wide, clean

with sparks
of good cheer.

Home was
a double-edged knife.


Frances Fay