Snapshot 12 October 02005

There is something about the way autumn
light enters this room through the yellow
leaves of the birch. Low and soft, it pads
through this house;

this house with its masks and its china,
its paintings of horses and skies. It touches
my face in the morning. I know it is not you
that I miss,

but loving you, wanting you. Spooned mornings
and naked afternoons, running like children
in the grownup house. The waiting for you
to come home.

Comments

[Ken]

The longing is palpable, it hangs in the air like sweet evenings in Summer.

[mia]

i just discovered your blog. I like the 'flair' and the light in your words.
i'll be back!

[Anna]

The house, host to pleasure and longing, is star of the piece. Lovely writing that made me nostalgic for the days of passionate waiting.

[Cathy]

Simple wonderful,Who doesn't long for something. Love the first line. due to the fact I haven't seen the sun for almost a week.