In the Sunroom


Love has a weight, and those cherished even more.

Sunlight is yearned for

and received

but always just an hour out of reach.

The warmth curls around like a cushion

in my hermitage of light;

small things from small hands

scattered on the floor.

The walls illustrate the distance

and reflections dapple ghostly on the skin.

I see my other self there in a shiny pane

(bracketed in the mundane)

waiting for feathers to sprout along arms.


I have stared too much.


But my tea is waiting…

there beside my chair.

The steam curls around like a cushion.

             – wg