I traced a stitch raised by your absence.
I concentrated on this panel of sky
and wound myself into a ribbon of silence.
I have sat at the brink drafting a lie.
I have held my breath, entered the rooms,
drawn down the blinds and opened my eyes.
I’ve stood still enough to find my own way home.
I died a little when I took tiny sips of Spring
and spared no thought for when it had all gone.
I know all I need to know. I breathe in
the shadow’s scent when it is near
and commit it to my own silent skin.
Everything over the past three
years leads back to you.
I rest on the tilted gate to prepare
for rain, the rain that began elsewhere.
memoryhouse 