February 25, 2016

A Blackbird | #CapturedInWords

Past the garden gate 
The jagged silhouette of a pipe
Puffs soft chugs of steam
That curl like the smoke
From a trembling cigarette
And settle on the milkman's crate 
The house is cold-quiet
Lest for the toe-tip patter
Of Grandma
Up with the dawn 
For she's hardly caught a wink
Drawing water for the kettle
From the grumbling sink 
Morning breaks over us
In tufts and shafts 
Of wool and light
Rolling, reaching, rousing
Grandma waits patiently 
To be seen 
The only woman for which she is now known
And stares hard through the window at a blackbird


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