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.

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