The snow decorated the Delaware countryside with an
Her moccasin covered feet slapped lightly on the
A late blooming flower child of the sixties, she had returned
She could acknowledge that her life had gone full
Shadows danced on the living room walls, to a
The graying embers popped and hissed, as she stroked them
A log is placed on the fire, and she returns to the victorian sofa,
Tonight, as with so many nights before, they are loyal
There will be no knocks at the door this evening, unless perhaps,
Later, as the moon and snow compliment each others presence
She will share a place with two old friends, snuggled tightly in a
icing frosty white, and the dark gray pan promised more
from the baker's hands.
The large two story farmhouse had ninety-five years
of stories in its walls, and the painful ones made
its bones, creak and moan.
hardwood floor, then muffled skips across that
old sun flower printed rug.
to ancestral haunts, sojourned by the spectures of death,
taxes and no where else to go.
circle at least three times, the evidence seen in glossy
eight by tens, of color and black and white.
melody played by flickering candles, four beats
hard....four beats soft.
to life, with the long, black poker; while enjoying the feel of its
handle in her hand.
where two white persians prowl for a place to lounge or
just to be cuddled.
and affectionate surrogates, for hearts drifting easily as the
wind driven flakes, twisting past her window.
Ten years after the fact, she could confidently admit that
Colombian Red and homemade wine, was a splendid aphrodisiac or
a soothing sedative....depending on the need.
the wind attempting to gain entrance....with its icy face pressed
hard against the window panes.
in an illustrious promenade, and the large dark house begins
to speak through shadows.
heavy, patch quilt made by her great-grandmother, and so
perfect for nights like this.