The morning-whispers from icy trees, like the sound of needles embroiding memories worth watching, make him hold his pace.
Once there was a pink painted house he can not find now. A blackbird follows every move he makes.
His footsteps have not been here in a while, they are heavier.
He knows the histories behind these walls as he witnessed them
And the light streaming from the sky is the same
As when he had a name, when there was no need for introduction.
Now the town has no interest in him, and already he walks on
Unaware of the curtain moving behind the window of the white house, Where time has washed some of the paint
And underneath the layers the pink is screaming for his return.
Then the blackbird lands and stands before him, won’t give way. The man looks over his shoulder. The embroidery is ready; trees go silent.
~~ Happy New Year!!!!! ~~