Roof Charm
What is home if not exile to the familiar?
A serrated kiss at the closet door.
We duck our heads and cook meals undercover,
the sun’s rays deflected.
And every relentless day finds
our hands wanting.
The black shawl, unfolded.
Wax melted on the whetstone.
You say stars shiver despite their light.
You say one hand mirrors its mate’s arc.
I say warmth flows through you, the roof our sky.
“Roof Charm” made its first appearance here in June 2016.
O at the Edges 
The photo compliments this nicely – the crescents as if charms.
LikeLiked by 4 people
I couldn’t resist those crescents!
LikeLiked by 2 people
“…an exile to the familiar…”. Wonderful, Robert!
LikeLiked by 3 people
It does feel that way sometimes. 🙂
LikeLike
We often miss those portents because they are so familiar…(K)
LikeLiked by 2 people
Yes, the familiar becomes the overlooked, or the invisible.
LikeLike
Wonderful
LikeLiked by 2 people
Thanks very much.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Nice article
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you.
LikeLike
Amazing and beautiful words!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I have nothing clever to say about this other than I love it. Home has its own practical magic.
LikeLike
Thank you! Home indeed has its magic, even when it seems otherwise.
LikeLike