opening windows in April
she used to play piano on late
Sunday mornings
the boys in the kitchen singing
and keeping plenty busy
preparing brunch and such
there’s no sense trying to
rescue that painting
it’s best to prime the canvass
and start again from scratch
that knock-off Picasso that used
to hang in the living room
made a killing at the auction
the memories weren’t for sale
they simply stayed with the house
drifting in and out of walls
depending upon the season
and which windows might be
open or shut
april two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
This. 💕
Thank you, Sarah!
sometimes you write a whole life in one poem….this is one of those times. lovely and clever.
This is excellent, John. I especially like the first line break, which makes this be about pregnancy issues … trying to get pregnant and being unable, having miscarriages. Or if the boys are her sons, then maybe she’s “always pregnant,” or so it seems. The feeling of loss is so heavy. Losing even the knock-off painting … I think she’s lost herself, and I guess she isn’t even worth looking for anymore. She’s given up on being a person, a painting, something beautiful.
Thank you, Shawna – I’m glad you enjoyed this piece.