It is very quiet here--so still

I don't live here--I live down the hill

On this winter's afternoon

The distant sun--it slowly swings the room around

This room hangs on a golden chain

Suspended

Frozen

Frozen in time since you went away



Walking through your rooms I though your things

Fitting--these aren't fingers these are wings

It says April on your calendar

It's winter now--I wonder where you are

I hope it's warm and sunny--or cold and windy

As long as you're fine



Your house is as tumble-down as mine

Crumpled papers everywhere like mine

This one says "I'll write no more"

That one says "don't lock the door"

Writers are a funny breed

I should know



You said someday when we're pure and high

We won't need to capture and describe

The things we see or don't see

We'll let things be

Let things be

That's when you'd leave



And that is why I had to come today

My mad scribbling crumpled, crippled, fey

Tossing words from ledges that erode

From ledges--I am not a goat

I am not a piece of chalk

I just want to do it right like you



And now I stand here in your house

Everything's so still

I wonder if I'll write again

Or let things be

Writers are a funny breed