A half open window
Buffeted by wind
Creeping through doors and cracks
Of a hollow house standing tall
In golden seas:
. Hosts of October’s departure.
.
Wind shuffling papers off a dusty table
Scattering and sliding along dark wooden floors.
.
On the table, the long swoop of her fingers
Catches the last, late sun:
. Bony knuckles in pale skin.
.
Little games the wind plays:
. A back door slams shut,
. Sneaking open again.
.
Her eyes, silent and empty:
. A blank stare across fields of time
. Become rusted playgrounds.
At just the right angle:
. Sparkling. Just then.
.
She’s sat here for a hundred years:
. Maybe longer,
Beside this window to the wind.
.
Messages, there are none
Until a warm gust,
Catching her grey hair,
.
Sprawled fingers curl then loosen
.
Warm tidings rippling through the grass
Knocking on a window
Where she’s waited for so long.
.
On a gust, the door flies open
Like a deep breath through the rooms
And for just a moment
The faintest, sweetest smell,
Like wispy memories of life,
She thinks.
.
Now the sudden hush of stillness.
.
All so warm and easy
This tall house, leaning on years
Fingers grasping for the last of the light.
.
And the warm, sweet smell of her passing still lingers here
As October’s stories scatter across dark skies and warm winds.
Shaken Rain 