Exploring Halls, Finding Union (141)
Moisture swelled wooden joints.
The latch would not make contact.
Widow sill’s blackened corners,
panes of glass loved by your forehead and nose tip.
Drawers filled with crumbs.
Stories and meals slipping with time,
leverage on tomorrow’s stair.
Common rate of beating hearts,
dust on every surface.
A poem a day for a year. This is poem number 141 of 365.