Winter, reflected in our keen houses
       

The sky is plain and the bushes thin, the walks bare,
the structure broad, appealing.
The room a box, the home—
nothing will grow
where it is. The sky bends against the planks.
Lonesome, uncomplicated curve.
The landscape
working along so even.
The stairway, the rail, the back of the chair.
The body of a lamp, a globe.
Curtains that scrape against the floor. The fabric
so thin the scams show through.
The light creates the effect
which cannot be so different from wavering.

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Copyright © 2012 Genevieve Kaplan All rights reserved
from In the ice house
Red Hen Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission