the house creaks in the sudden sunlight the plants can almost
breathe in the windows the furnace rests the gusts object the insects
crawl back to their haunts in the vents the sweaters migrate to the bottom
of the drawer the shawls decorate the backs of the rockers
and
yet
even now as the solstice approaches August and September
beckon
and time speeds up in anticipation of the passage of the
present to the past
|
it's quiet
the flag ripples in the wind and tosses the
flagpole in its saddle and flaps against the pergola beams the little
lost silver fish charm listens with me while it waits
and I can hear
all that, and the cable box hard drive humming, the fans running in the
basement, their steady rustling rising through the vents
that's how
quiet |