—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

 

© Copyright 2016
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