— A poem from “Hope in the Hoarfrost” —
A child calls for his mother from the backyard door,
The old beagle curls up in her bulky bean bed —
The house at the curb drifts to sleep on the edge of life.
Downcast pens drop to leather-bound pages,
Doodles are drawn where the true words should be —
And the typewriter still collects dust in the basement.
Oil and canvas crowd the empty hallway,
Splatters of pigment replacing the pain —
And a blanket buries blemishes of days gone by.
There is a new painting in the foyer,
One tree stands alone on an open sea —
Then I hear the small sound of the oak piano keys.
I do not know who I was meant to be.
Written By Melissa F. Kaelin