Cottage Of Miss Pennyworth

Cottage Of Miss Pennyworth
© Surazeus
2018 07 01

I wash my memories in sink of sorrow
to shine the scenes with gleams of morning light
where I spoke noble words of honest faith
and never yelled in frustration of hope.

I sweep the choking dust of bitter words
with broom of mute apologies to clean
empty house of hopes where soft breezes blow
whispers from the fluttering tongues of trees.

I dig narrow trench through silence of mud
and stack broken stones to build wall of fear
enclosing private paradise to hide
absence of people who should share love.

I lock the laughing gate to preserve scent
of apple pies baking at my warm hearth
before cold rain of indifferent desire
soaks garden of hopes trampled by blind lust.

I knit fiber of lamb wool in warm shirts
and sit by cracked window of changeless angst
to watch snow flakes swirl from the sphere of flames
while singing tuneless spell of deathless names.

I never wear the white lace wedding gown
that I last wore alone in empty church
while waiting pregnant for ghost of my hope
whose name vanishes more in every storm.

I set the pail of water from the well
beside the little mound where violets bloom
and wonder what name I would have called her,
the still-born child sired by the nameless ghost.