the window

my eyes

lead me along

the gravelled driveway

beneath my feet

the sugared crunch

of a thousand tiny frozen ponds

i look up

at the old farmhouse

an agreement between timber and stone

slate and milk paint

has brought this building

through time to this moment

living through

star-filled skies

buzzing cicadas

and winter storms

children and wakes

she had said, "use the back stairs.

he'll hear us but he won't know who you are."

the chill wind

thin with november frost

wraps its bony fingers

about my body

i lean into its icy hands

holding fear's

hollow warmth

inside

at the back of the farmhouse

a screen door

screen flapping uselessly

i pull my gloves off

grasp the thin metal handle

and pull it open

facing me

a painted deep-brown door

do i knock?

do i turn the handle

and walk inside

this stranger's home?

do i walk back along the driveway?

a tapping sound

draws my eyes skywards

to a lone window

tall and narrow

gauzy curtains billow outwards

into the now soft falling snow

i see something of her face

"let yourself in"

she says.

she's there

in all the soft silences

of my remembering

to read

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