These hands, gnarled as ancient oak
is gnarled, and a question.
The light streams into the room
in happy banners, making
long afternoon shadow,
dismissing the quiet. Surely
there should be noise, much gestures.
Light on my eyes, and I'm blinking
slowly.
What is all this
but passing motion?
Once, this stillness was absent
from the walls of this house.
I would bustle around my room,
arrange photos on a table,
fold clothes, write letters.
The heat of days spent
must have driven me
to such cool, friendly solitude,
to such age.
For Donald Justice
Javie, Waps, Joel
