Wednesday, April 22, 2015


Monday motorcade moans
a mile away from where I lay
waking to lingering regret.

This is an anniversary
marked by many motorists
though they don't know
they weren't invited.

Built from a decade
of self-denial and sweat,
this house sits square
parallel to the highway.

Emerging from a field
the color of puffballs
surfacing beneath the soil
where corn once grew,

The frame assembled
then windows sealed
the snow and rain from
hearthstone inside.

Deer hunters' morning,
the sounds of men and trucks
faded with each window
falling into its sash.

Looking out the wet glass
over the sapling-studded grass
I knew in my bones
the trees would shield me.

But I was wrong,
each morning a reminder
that life doesn't stop
once a goal is attained.

Did the trees know
another truth in the earth
below them and this house
I built ten years ago?

They do not mask
the motorists' march a mile away
or failure's maudlin emotion
this side of the pane.

Copyright 2015 by Femme Malheureuse
Graphic: Regret by karmablue via Flickr

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