Sweeper of Days

This hour is a scraggly broom
sweeping away the dust
scraps and broken songs
of the day.

The hearth is warm,
glowing, and inviting like a home
should be- the place
to start from - to return to:
the dry Welcome mat
at the end of damp grass,
the brink of wildflowers and fireflies.

Red rusted gate
shuts out the clock;
here, it’s always early
afternoon in orange-tinted autumn,
brazenly blazing, "I am here!"
illuminated by
stars strung like cobwebs.

It is the witching
hour,
bristles scrape against the wall,
sweeping another day
another place
another memory.
Another beginning, now.





(This is an old poem, from 2008 or 2009 tinkered with, resurrected... but the broom never quite left my mind. Soon, I will post images - collages, craft projects, colorful visuals that are so intermingled with my words. I have a few short stories, too, to post. And, of course, an endless supply of poems. This summer is a cool, dark well of words - I perch on the stones, lean in, and listen.)