Having just cleaned the floor, the broom rests
Behind the door, in a soft sibilant silence there
In the slightly open arms of the door, triangularly
Marking lines of shadows enclosing a darkness,
A darkness that is a creaking silence, a soft purr.
It has eaten a room's lines in one large scoop
Lines formed in a half light of curtained sunlight,
Writ in the waters of a window's ascending sun.
The lines are flights of birds white to our fingers.
And they will soon fly to temporary night rests
As little blobs of white in the darkness of trees.
But the broom has scooped up the dusty light
And the light is now flying feverishly as soft dust
Particles towards higher reaches of the room.
After creating the storm the broom safely rests
In the shadow of the door's triangle with the wall.
Posted at 04:35 pm by adukuri