Interiors
The history of shadows, a longing
for brightness to bring through your
eyes shapes and their
belongings: our differences, entwined.
It is evening. Wind breathes in the trees and
through your hands at the piano, returning
speech to its origin, clouds, the moon,
burning wood. November, dying.
How often I fail through lack of words.
Beauty in form. Not to create but as in
respiration, to share, to accept and
return without thought. In and out,
the days reciprocate. White, black. Figures
waiting in darkness for light to come bear them.
Another poem from the 80s, “Interiors” made its first appearance here in May 2015.
O at the Edges 
I love this!
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Thank you, Vanessa.
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Thank you for sharing!
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“returning speech to its origin”……this is a gorgeous poem!
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Thank you. Speech is often difficult for me – I’m slow to respond and prone to silence.
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I know that feeling all too well.
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An all too common malady for some of us, I fear.
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Stirring … especially respiration as sharing the invisible without thought. We don’t typically give much thought to overlap/sharing of visible shadows either. And then those inner shadows – those get mingled one-to-another as well.
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Thanks, Jazz. I’m quite comfortable with sharing the invisible. The visible often seems ostentatious…
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beautiful poem!
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Thank you.
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“How often I fail through lack of words.” There are so many words between those words. Wonderful line.
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Oh, my daily failures! Thank you, Will.
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“Interiors” is just beautiful……………….. Barry
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Thank you, Barry!
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