This time I sit in the corner, in the dark
leather chair. I see the oak trees
that are usually behind me, their leaves
turning from green to red to amber. I see
the section in the bookcase on gardening
and permaculture, when I normally face
psychology. A piece of colored glass dangles
from a thin white string in the bright, almost
glaring, picture window. I’ve always seen
the reflections of the glass, little prism rainbows
dancing on the dark plank floor, but I never look
at the glass itself. I hear the sounds of the house
through my other ear now: the clicking on
and then whoosh of the furnace, the hourly
refrigerator whatnots, the creakiness
of settling. All the sounds that blend into mute
when you keep looking in the same direction.
A plane passes overhead. A woman rakes her leaves.
Cars drive by both ways, too quickly. One neighbor
waves, the other waves and smiles. Sparrows
soar and dip and circle back in pairs, as if
they forgot their keys on the counter back home.
© BARB REYNOLDS
Published in FRESHWATER LITERARY JOURNAL, May 2018.
This poem may not be reproduced without the author’s permission.