An empty house across the street,
snow-capped, mid-renovation;
daffodils waiting underground
with honey and fire;
strands of festive lights
held over like a beloved play.
Somewhere,
a buck standing by a stream,
his breath smoke and rhythm.
And the sound,
oh, and the sound
you can only hear
if you’re not listening.
Published in Open Arts Forum on .
Hugh does not prefer to talk about himself in the third person, but if he did, he'd tell you he's in a self-imposed exile on the east coast of the USA, but still loves his former home in the Sonoran Desert. He is the author of Odd Numbers And Evensongs and Auditions For The Afterlife.
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