Before nightfall, fog rolls in without a glance.

Tree limbs bow under winds turned against the day’s heat.

I hear sounds from birds in my room like a castle, a cabin
from a hammer, wood and nails played against the ages.

As the fog briefly turns its eyes downward darkness slips
between words held briefly in the wind over the evergreens
outside my window.

The fog does not reach in.  Gray thoughts disappear
in the dullness of a calm voice; like yesterday.

Instead of remembering I hold the silence.


Copyright © Patrick Flynn, 2005. All Rights Reserved.