Wednesday, January 4, 2012

The Hum of a House, A Prose Poem

It's been a quiet New Year's at our house, where the winter settled slowly around the old brick and bare trees. We've cooked little dinners with all those contented sounds we've always heard other people make: the uncorking bottles and drying dishes all give the same smiling sigh.
 New Year's came for a quiet evening of soft unimportant talk, for a few hands of rummy, and for just a splash of champagne. We lift glasses, and speak in turn about the was, the is, the will be.

We had a busy week, as we measure these things: many faces smiling full and round; familiar faces that we remember as smooth and strong and young, now deeply scored, each line a brimming well of joy. So now we sit on the couch. Our couch, in our house. I rest my head in your lap and read to you the news we missed of the world that hasn't mattered for New Year's week, while we've been busy weaving the quiet into tomorrow.

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