In the Yellow House
In the blue room of the sun
in the yellow house,
behind terracotta walls
a tossed night is pulled from the bed
and thrown on a pile of other nights
wrinkled, indelibly lorn.
The woman hums as her hands stroke
farewell before it goes in the basket,
remembering the voice in the deep,
how she was loved
with words and lost in silence
far from this landlocked yellow boat
on a prairie sea, ribbed by the
bleaching shipwreck of her life, where
in the front room she hears
the men say,
It takes money to buy whiskey.
Light’s first nod is still a few miles away
across the grainfed graveyard out the window
where Orion sinks in another
lightening quicksand sky, one foot
on a scruboak branch, both hands uplifted
to the horizon plummeting hawk sure,
hanging on to the moment
before his last fingertip slips past in the fade,
drowned till tomorrow in star foam,
floating memories, the breaker crashed
ebb of the voice in her dream
softening away away, murmured in the constant
wind rasped fretting of the wheat, sleepless
as the oblivious sea;
so she knows
no wave is ever really gone
no word ever said wasted
no whiskey bought stronger
than what musics her morning song.
Posted for real toads
Today is Open Link Monday at real toads, and I am using a photo from the Sunday Challenge there, which featured Kat Mortensen, late to the party, as usual.Thanks, Kat!
Optional Musical Accompaniment
Image copyright Kat MortensenUsed with permission.