What Remains (2)

Trunks of old photos. An 1837 family Bible, births and deaths recorded of unknown and numberless dead. How my ancestors came to marry one another. Memory books of travels feinting towards the exotic, in a great-grandmother's hand. The building of the old church. Ancient flickers between leaves, a moment's whiff of October, dried and dessicating papyrus. Baby clothing never used.

turned to the wall,
a pillar of old scrapbooks—
landslide of memory

A place in the sun unlike any other. Nothing there but white light on white floors and walls. Glowing from under eaves. Sun's lines on walls moving as the day moves. Strips of light, shadow, what lies between. Frames of windows open passages into the light. Through portals the movement and scent of oceans.

sunstruck stone and sea:
strands of kelp across tidepools
radiate sunglint shards

Shelter: oven, closet, broom, stove. Places where the old lines of furniture now gone are left embossed in carpets, outlined in dirt and dust. Wall now clean, now empty. Marks where nails were, and lines around hung frames, vanished. Fresh coats of paint. Roof of thatch or woodnail and tin. Rains from above and below. Trying to convince flood or famine to stay outside.

stone sea and sky
build up a new home—
till the world fails