From the Outside (Day 31)

 

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