A French chanson on the radio,
A vanilla-scented candle in the new, small candelabrum;
Mother stole it from work.
The smell of rice from the oven,
A cart filled with neatly cut logs,
An empty street,
Leafless trees.
Life on the second floor.
An ever playful dog,
The neighbor saying “hello”,
Coffee and cigarettes,
An apple instead of breakfast,
Old, word-filled papers, torn from notebooks I can’t remember,
An unexpected inspiration.
A day when you’re feeling almighty,
Hoping only that it doesn’t get dark,
Only that it doesn’t get dark,
Now when the home is so warm and fragrant.
Leave a Reply