From the outside, looking in
the mullioned window down
a small slope from the sidewalk
where she pauses, leash in hand,
through shades and curtains wide
open to the evening, which comes
early now that September is sailing
out on a cool northern breeze:
A candle burns, unthreatened
by three small lamps, arranged so
their dull glow softens the edges
of encroaching gloom—soft-white
bulbs recently planted, in preparation
for December's chill,
when their rosy bloom will fill
even the dimmest corners
of the low-ceilinged room.
This house, this home—all
eighteenth-century doors and
deep stone sills—tumbles and spills
into a deep, wide garden, where
—come summer—fireflies will hover,
and the family she imagines
as characters in an Austen novel,
endure their mild dramas
amidst towering oaks and buckled
sidewalks, living and loving
and drinking tea—all the while
unaware of the melancholy
woman whose dog pauses,
thoughtfully, just here,
each evening so she may commit
their lives to memory.
(c) 2017, by Hannah Six
