(Poem by Wendy Howe )

Curtains are drawn, the casements splintered.
What breathes and hangs beyond each window
is all shadow and dust. The house has been homeless
for years; but when the late glow of sun dissolves
into dusk, there is sensation. Observe
the brass plate on the door. Like a mirror
reflecting figures who rise within, it reveals
a woman holding an infant. Her hair braided,
shining gold as her Tudor sleeves -- while she guards
the ancestry of family and faith. Each Yuletide
there was always a mother and child,
table with bread and wine, ivy and flame,
grey dove and voices that sang --
Come under my roof and belong, rest on my hearth,
Kind Love and keep warm.
© 2012, Wendy Howe. E-mail.

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