Shadow Box

In bended shapes
A woman takes
The scraps of all she finds
With smallish hands
And sewing thread
To fasten it together

Behind the drapes
A record plays
To help her pass the time
In other plans
Her tired head
Can see a world that’s better

The souvenirs
Of early years
Adorn a faded quilt
Awaiting some
Appointed time
In patient little piles

Her bottled tears
And casual stares
The treasures she has built
With baby’s hair
And turpentine
Above the kitchen tiles

The winter fox
Beneath the porch
Is hiding from the hunters
Her picket fence
Is broken where
The tree line meets the field

Her shadow box
And story boards
Will hold her through ’till summer
In finger dance
The rocking chair
Beside her window sill

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The Deadly Manner

Marks across her eyes
She takes the shadows from the corners
Sucks the feeling from my lies
And steals the morning from the dawn

Dancing in the dark
With a deadly sort of manner
Wilted flowers on the mantle
And the scent of something wrong

Lips that never utter
Though they faintly mouth my name
As my heart begins to stutter
And the silence fairly screams

Skin as soft as satin
As her arms embrace me gently
In an ancient form of Latin
Voices echo in my dreams

Life and love and laughter
Shrink away within her presence
As she leads the steps on quicker
‘Till the movements stir the leaves

Out into the courtyard
And I cannot pull to stop her
Underneath the waning moonlight
Falling slowly through the eaves

When did we begin
My memories are dull and faded
They betray the story’s ending
Though I cannot see the start

Hand in hand she takes me
So much further down the spiral
And, in tempo, I can feel it
It’s the rhythm of my heart

Earth below my feet
These empty hollows in the mist
Here as she slows the spinning, calmly
Pulls my head against her breast

Sounds are far away now
And the light has made it’s exit
Her lips–so cold and timeless
As I taste the kiss of death