December 18, 2012 // Snapshots

Nine-year-old princesses’ feet cascading downstairs to wake me;

two pairs of blue eyes amid clementine curls smiling, “good morning.”

 

Flashing lights in a rearview mirror syncopated with blood pressure;

I am imperfect; a file with my name on it is hidden in some dark room.

 

Silence broken by unpracticed fingers on piano, but I am home,

and my hands are at rest between the occidentals stumbling through Canon.

 

Barren branches crest the hill, glowing rust in the winter sunset.

I am alone viewing this looking-glass of a highway, lined in oak.

 

It gets dark so early here, with the lights in the tree possessing the

window frames – reflection or reality, does it matter so long as there’s beauty?

 

It’s cold but the windows are down because winter has crept into the air;

and I can smell hints of long months to come laden with ice and fireplaces.

 

The constellations shiver, but they are all the more clear for it;

They look in envy as my key slides into the lock and I am home.