Smell of family
and crumbled cookies
of a Sunday morning
now no more…
Only trace of burnt wood
from a long-spent fire.
Stale bread and
an empty bird nest
with an anxious tenant spider…
Rusted door hinges
playing with the stubborn wind.
I go out to the yearning lawn…
The weeds laugh at me.
The old squirrels
frail and thin haired
askance on dried branches
gaze bleary-eyed.
All is quiet.
Except for the faint drum
of a hopeful heart
in a cagey chest.
Jerky montage of greyed memories
play on the blooming
honeysuckle flowers.
Distant smell
Or is it fragrance?
of the family sweat
that wafts through the night’s body…
Nudges me up from my stupor
and lures me…
To give my little finger
to my hopeful heart
…and work out a smile
for the next day.
When I
I may just wake
and bake
some more cookies.
