The Sparrows Are Sleeping Late

you are fine white earthenware

a porcelain gift in a stranger’s hands

you gathered yourself around me,

introduced me to your ancestors

and your quilts, arranged and re-arranged baskets,

catered to the cats, tendered the plants,

and mixed your books in with mine

I was comfortable with us

all my dead ends turned to footpaths

and long leisurely walks home

you were someone soft

I wanted my hands to know a lifetime

flute and violin, always to possess

a corner of my morning sun

the leaves of 15 summers

turned in our reflection

now

the sparrows are sleeping late

the shades are drawn

in the breakfast room

and the music of our promised lifetime

a soft  irreversible memory

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