interlude

an evening interlude, prismatic
fresh pine, the scent of clean,
your sleeping dress, hanging,
behind the door, worn plain and thin,
from speaking high and listening low,
from the other side, the children grown
sensitive to tone and pitch, oblivious
to words and depth of meaning,
they watch us, watching them,
curious about age, wary of touch,
the weight of daring to be human,
the weightlessness of being alive
surrounds the house, like windows,
dawnlight creeps about the hedgerows,
before hanging itself below the ceiling