Walls
Glacier blue walls
and the autumn
scent of spiced apples,
with the day glow
signaling morning
means I’ve woken
up in Michigan.
In winter, with small
hands testing
temperature, there
are death echoes
all around.
I’ve found a safe haven
in the ceiling cracks,
under pacing footsteps
from the attic above.
There once were
Easter lilies
by the bedside,
reeking like
a funeral home,
and it makes sense
that a phantom scent
should haunt me now.
In this room
are many kept memories.
The knick-knacks
stare at me. Porcelain
figurines with
fading painted smiles.
When twilight descends,
there are shadows of
spectators guarding
over me as I sleep.
I turn over
and wake up in the spring.
It’s time to exit
the cocoon of old
heartlands. It’s time to
wander back to
that corner room
only in my
nostalgic mind.
There are fingerprints
in that icy abode,
and they’re mine.
Thistle Thoughts 