Life With Horace

poetry & essays

night silence

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in this aged house
the winter night
is many things,
but not deep quiet,
never utter stillness,
both conceits of
humans in retreat.
with us at rest,
it moves and breathes
in darkness,
sighing wood and stone,
the whine and snore of dogs,
feet twitching gently
as they dream,
small colonies of mice
sensed more than heard,
remnant memories
within its walls
merge with the energy
of word and color,
line and shape
collected and held close,
to make this much loved place.
and so I head for bed,
the last light gone,
leaving the plants looking out
at the night
to watch the snow fall

Author: Life With Horace

poetry & essays

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