I almost wrote about sleep as I was kept awake by some strange whirring sound last night that’s still going on. Houses are weird characters. Buzzing like a humming machine. Windows are eyes in dreams. Do small hobbits live in fridges? And why does being tired make you sneeze? Answers on a postcard please.
Flicker
Switchback
waiting. Insouciant curve.
Songbirds caught,
wrung out on wires taut,
hung in the
dripping sun to dry out.
It comes in
waves, stops to check in,
tricks you into
burning what’s in the stove.
Gingerbread
takes me back to childhood,
a home within
a home, spun truly. But
this web is
finely knit, dew its ornament,
diamond sparkles
in a cluster-thick splash
of yearn.
Leaves whisper ragged on breezes,
sunlight simpering
in and out of sound.
These days
part and turn to speak again,
embracing time
on stop. It bends, depends.
Stop and
start. “Tread wisely as you go.”
“Have some thought
for others.” This space is.
“What pays
the bills?” “Lessen your impact.”
Earth unveils
roots, feels every footstep.
Flicker in,
flicker out. It will all stop one day.
Copyright Vickie
Johnstone, November 19, 2020
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