Mourning

On the wooden shelf, one book less.

The hand, forgetful, lingers

at the glow of afternoon

as the shades close in.

From each crevice, silent dust

blots up what light is left.

The living room turns on its axis.

Beyond the window, a shift in depth of field.

The long spine of the armchair eases back,

the creak of its ancient frame

adrift on failing ears.

Overhead, at the blue pool of evening,

the rooftiles’ teeth. On their ridge

a crouching, colorblind cat,

and one soul

perched for its long journey.

The shadows rise

with a cello’s falling notes,

and from its own source,

wind sets loose the spirit.