You walk in with your memories behind you and pity in your eyes.
But my room is clean now, no more
painful cobwebs in the windows, no more
stinging, choking dust under the easy chair.
So I look in your eyes without fear,
just like the first time,
and I do not notice
I ask you to sit and chat,
but you shake your head,
sympathy glittering as the dust stirs.
I ask how
you like the weather
and move to lift the shade,
but my hand touches sticky, silken threads.
I face you to say good-bye,
and you stand as always—
except for one brief time
—your hands behind your back
and that damnable pity in your eyes.
the river and the earth,
touched and caressed—
stroking, surging, cresting,
waves blanketed the earth—
the river bed
[These are older poems and I welcome any suggestions for improvement.]