Around this old wooden house,
branches moved by wind
and rain sound like voices.
There is as much absence
as presence in the sound,
as much pain as peace.
It is the unsteady rhythm
of solitude.
I don’t want to be alone.
Never truly alone in this world.
Before you leave, just tell me
who will care in thirty
years or forty to lift my chin
and tell me look — a bird.
Tonight, the wind is up,
the small dog barks and whines.
The old house is nervous
and whispering. We recognize
the dead, the call to supper
and the fervent prayer. We are
summoned but remain in bed
waiting for the breeze to die.
Kyle Kimberlin
August 28, 2014
Notes
This quote arrived in my e-mail recently and served to inspire:
For many years, I thought a poem was a whisper overheard, not an aria heard.
– Rita Dove, poet
In the second stanza, there’s a clue which proves that part was deposited in my notebook several years ago. Can you guess what that clue is?
Metaphor 