Leaving
The
space of an empty room is like the space of a cloud,
an
impression of mass, an impression of weight
that
isn’t there. It draws you into its full emptiness.
Rooms
and clouds are both simple and complex, like death.
We
pick paint swatches for our mood - breath of white, swan dusk,
fleece,
sun wash, sail cloth, seashore, forest, darkening sky.
We
leave the patina of our fingers, our touch
on
walls, on surfaces, sometimes in them.
We
darken newly painted wood with every touch
and
leave ourselves in it, or try to.
The
dead leave our rooms to discover what they might find,
might
touch, on the reverse side of all our painted colors.
They
love the slow, soft pearling of window light
that
shifts over surfaces, changing each color.
We
move through our spaces, our rooms,
believe
that we control spaces, define colors.
We
move through breath of white, swan dusk, fleece,
sun
wash, sail cloth, seashore, forest, and darkening sky,
insubstantial
as a room of clouds
flying
to a funeral in a plane at 30,000 feet.
Greg
Gregory is retired, but worked in educational media for over 30 years.
His first love has always been language and the printed word. He has been
published in the US, Canada, and England in publications including California
Quarterly, Windsor Review, Poetry Nottingham, and The
Aurorean.
Greg,
ReplyDeleteI like this. I am impressed you were published in The Aurorean, I one of my haiku was in there, but it's not an easy magazine to get into. Welcome to Whispers!
Your new friend,
David Fox
Wow! I'll never look at an empty room or painting a room the same way again.
ReplyDeleteNice work, Greg. I enjoyed your poem. Thank you for sharing and continued blessings!
ReplyDelete-MJ (www.tgbtgpublictions.com)