I had a home,
it was my sister that left-
first in a sense,

making the wood floors cold again.

When I left
it was different-
it was a door,
open widely
and a voice
wishing well
chiseled in stone.

Funny-
that chisel never rested
it continued hammering
the same words one by one
until all the words were killed.

And now,
I’m troubled to see granite words.

When they arrive,
I set them aside,
pouring over them
maybe a breath
could bring life
to the dead bones-
speaking to them

“Speak to them”
I could say it.

but they’re dead
all the traction in the world
won’t move this up.

2 Jan 09