Don't tell me the moon is shining, show me the glint of light on broken glass - Anton Chekhov
It caught my eye
a flash of ghostly silver on the pane
whose jagged pieces lie
across the oaken floor's distinctive grain
and silky strands that frame a spider's lair
are laced throughout the rafters, everywhere.
There's no one here
they packed and left this place so long ago
that no one's really clear
on why they felt an urgent need to go
and rob this dusty hearth of warmth or love,
a haunt for me and the moon above.
Are You Reading Me?
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