There are three days each week
at week’s end, that I am running my hands
over the still surface of a wall
or a rippling bed sheet,
standing knee deep in puddles of cotton
or holding paint chips like playing cards.
Music, my companion in the empty house,
laughs along with me, asking
ain’t that a kick in the head
while I wipe up the drops of jupiter
and find new perspective.
The walls sing the echoes
of an inside summertime campout,
storms past now and leaves in the trees
tremble, and sigh, wait for their return,
the house waiting, waiting,
becoming a home again,
vessel for our voices,
lives, happiness
to fill to overspilling.

***

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