Marble
Hermione
The Light on the Door
Jade
What We Give
The Ghosts
of Who We Were
The Last Thing
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The Light on the Door |
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Something about the old house we passed In the last town. Orleans? Coventry? The door with the long glass oval. The pale light, failing light, canted on the blind surface, The glow from the bevel, rainbowed , Caved in on time, on history. Nothing in nature so catches at the well of sadness As this, nothing. Not evocative mist Slow-wreathing through budded woodlands . Not breeze-blown, rippling lake water as it laps ashore Not warm violets shaded, Not airy honeysuckle lattice . This pang can come anywhere. What is the reason? I think Such light, lilac, slopes across lives almost ours That we didnft have – a weight As of a slumbering presence within the walls Of old houses, an immanence Brooding. What we long for. Almost as if we could open the burnished door, Step inside a hallway, a rose-dark room with high ceiling, And, looking out from the other side Through wavery glass of a tall window, find life in a lost year, Old sunlight, rung chimes, shimmer Of the possible. Out of reach. Ours @ |
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