Sunday, February 19, 2017

From the Outside (Day 31)


 

From the outside, looking in 
the mullioned window down 
a small slope from the sidewalk
where she pauses, leash in hand,
through shades and curtains wide 
open to the evening, which comes 
early now that September is sailing 
out on a cool northern breeze:
A candle burns, unthreatened 
by three small lamps, arranged so
their dull glow softens the edges
of encroaching gloom—soft-white
bulbs recently planted, in preparation 
for December's chill, 
when their rosy bloom will fill 
even the dimmest corners 
of the low-ceilinged room.  
This house, this home—all 
eighteenth-century doors and 
deep stone sills—tumbles and spills 
into a deep, wide garden, where
—come summer—fireflies will hover, 
and the family she imagines 
as characters in an Austen novel,
endure their mild dramas 
amidst towering oaks and buckled 
sidewalks, living and loving 
and drinking tea—all the while
unaware of the melancholy 
woman whose dog pauses,
thoughtfully, just here,
each evening so she may commit
their lives to memory.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six