Wood Floors
creak
as bare toes press along lined pieces of our nineteen-fifty’s
red-brick
home. Nothing fancy about the house other than the way it was built
and
the floors it came with. No charcoal granite counters, no stainless steel
appliances,
no
marbled bathrooms or Jacuzzi tubs. The hall bath tiled rose pink
suits
the home with sarcastic appreciation.
Two
pair of tiny feet pitter along our oak, making melody unlike any instrument
Crisp
leaves orchestrating against the heavens breathe
cannot
compare to the notes invented within these pressed pieces
The
hallway of my home growing up made music too. I can still hear it
Melodies
of memories silhouette up and down
the
entry where stories live, though often untold.
I
stood frail-framed, arms clinched ‘round his warm broad neck
Buried
safe in a white-collard chest fragrant
with
day’s worn cologne. Mascara bled because I couldn’t.
Blurred
faithless I stood
on
our hard wood floors.
Emily
Murphy – November 2012
You've made music and sweet memories float out of that wood floor, Emily! Quite an amazing task! Beautiful prose to lighten my Monday back into the reality of life. Thanks so much!
ReplyDeleteThanks for stopping by Beth! Your comment delighted my day!
ReplyDeleteRight where you stand. Together. This is holy ground. So sweet
ReplyDelete