Ice on winter ponds cracks like silver mirrors, pastiche reflections gravity holds in place until jagged pieces are swept away, so much debris to melt and mud and silt the sea. Middle of winter pianos hold keys that fit the locks rusted so long. Notes from the soundboards, heavy cast from cheap metal, screw time in place before invention of rivets. I feel release in moss roses, and time's texture leaves final blooming crepe myrtle in that color all its own. I lie a sleeping solemn figure beneath quilt crazy in color, stitchery, and design.
Books line the wooden dusty shelves.
Some are encased in glass coffins, some are stacked slanting skyscrapers, and I have all morning to read. Copper kettle heats cold water fast, and brewed tea steams cream and sugar in white china cup with painted flower blue, like that night beneath the moon. These walls cracking whisper silence that filters like dust seen aslant in shafts of yellow light between shades Venetian, one much darker than the rest. Blue flame leaps to yellow flame of match in hand before the stove, and seated in the brown wicker rocker, I stare into the words and dreams until the knocked door opens quickly pushed by a guest and gust of wind. I offer no chair.