(Poem by Wendy Howe )
The pigeons have followed me here --
to this house and life nouveau.
They like the window ledge facing
the sea and its salted wind that shakes
branch tips resembling the Roman
numeral five. For half a decade,
I lived as a single woman
wandering through the best and worst of fashion,
softening concrete floors and stainless steel.
The urban loft appeared chic, a place
Where Picasso's brush might split
Olga's pale nose into pleated stone.
But then I met you. We married
and moved to this home on the coast.
where fog strips the smart veneer
and swabs the bone .
with a domestic glaze. Even
these gypsy birds arriving
from a park fountain or churchyard bell
invoke a song of gathering
my hands have piled those items
that call for mending. Fingers have stitched
your shirt, your jacket and a sheet
reflecting blue moonlight across our bed.
So much of the fabric wound
gathers my need to nourish
and bind our lives. The only tear
left untouched is dawn
ripping slowly into another day
and personal sense of joy.
To know more about Wendy Howe
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