I sit and read and ponder;
in the firelight where
my dead still wear slippers
warmed by their feet,
where tears of grief have
not lately run tracks across
the floor, where silence
is not lonely. It is segmented
into manageable sections;
each marked by clock-ticks,
cat-purrs, coal-crackles,
page-turns, wind-gusts,
chair-creaks, petal-falls,
and stomach-rumbles
at the thought that
it will soon be time for tea.
In my firelight, though he
may not be alive, he shoves
his feet deeper into his
slippers, stretches and stands
up. Do you want toast with
your tea? I do. Brown and
buttered. The clock chimes,
my cat yowls in dreamland, a
coal drops, I let my book slip
to the floor, a chair spring pings
as I rise, the wind whistles
a tune to which the whole vase
of flowers flickers in a waltz of
joy and my stomach audibly
growls the closing chords.
All is well. I have buttered
brown toast and my dad.
© Berenice Dunford 2008
