Revisiting home


The porch is gone and the screen door. The peeling clapboards look like siding and roof is new.

Insects flew right in the torn screen door. Even the cat found entry: It was a broken place.

Muffled sounds from the house faded away under the porch. It was quiet.

In my refuge under the porch, the dirt seemed sifted, soft as talcum, as a kiss.

Hazy particles swam filtered through shadows in dusty clouds and held me.

The porch is gone, also the screen, and the house no longer cries for paint.

It must be better in this new unbroken place.