Originally posted July 2014, I wrote this poem during my mid-life era while I was discovering a new-found freedom of expression in my poetry. Enjoy it for what it is—a free flow of ideas marked by whimsical foreboding and a bit of comical wordplay.
the wind sounds like a big machine
as it whistles past this house
the dust growls loudly
as it polishes the window panes
a screen door bangs
against the carcass of this house
two sad eyes stare into the winter (framed by shutters
the wind speaks the language of the mournful
(but I don’t care) inside this house the wind is silenced
by the clapping of the clapboards the barking of the trees
the shuddering of the shingles and the rasping
of the leaves (this house is empty
except for me)
she ties her hair in ribbons
and cries out to the wind, why
should you scare my innocence so;
or is it you laugh at me?
“Sing to me my child,” the wind mocks. “Sing to me
of jelly sticks (and doughnuts)
of lemon pies and lullabies”
(she pauses) the wind is hungry! (that’s why
it howls at me!) she places her hands against
the window and sighs, what a relief!