Going home.

Someone breathed a little

Melancholy into my home,

Hung cobwebs like

Christmas decorations and 

Painted dewdrops there.

"Don't touch," we're told, 

For where shrieks and balls

Bounced boldly

And endless time was 

Clawed and taunted by

Slapping gleeful hands, 

A formal record's kept.

Find there memories, 

Sensitivities and observations:

The proof that words won out, 

Lassoed your patchwork, rosy dreams and

Finished the jigsaw.

Made a square.

Coloured paper chains of love

Remain, but do not host the

Unity once drunk from

Warm determined hands.

Born in games, now it's 

Upon us to gather freely, 

Draw circles in the air, 

Summon up the pieces and

Explain them into place.

The word demands

A contemplation of our work, 

Well worn by wistful gazes.

We're spent, so they won't

Give us another.

Our forms are cut, 

Set apart from a sea of

Soft, white wings.

How carefully she skates

From room to room as

I read the newspaper

On a Saturday morning.

She pirouettes, catches my eye, 

Takes me by the hand and

Clears a path through 

My own home.

She'd have me see the way - 

I know it, but I

Fall into the rosebushes.

I see my face in each dewdrop,

and they're the beads of now!

Outlined and taught, balanced on the

Tips of our pens, 

Camera-snapped on thumb whorls which

Strain out of sinking earth.

Crumbling banks robbed

Sweet mumbles of the land.