“It seems to me we can never give up longing and wishing while we are thoroughly alive. There are certain things we feel to be beautiful and good, and we must hunger after them.” ~George Eliot
If wishes were horses
The white shadow returns
coatless, as he prefers now.
As always, he ignores
his only daughter, a playful pretense,
as though he is unaware of her presence
there with him in the old kitchen.
His imprint is palpable in the air
She shivers, and standing at the old sink,
she bangs against the unwashed metal pots
as much as she dares.
She longs to be noticed,
and to feel again the scratch
and prickle of his tattered woolly coat
against her cheek. The coat
he used to wear. Perhaps
it was lost, not burned to ash.
Trembling now, not shivering.
she senses the fullness
of his presence has vanished,
and hears the empty silence
admonish her: Quit now.
He was not here. You cannot
wake the dead.
I guess Poly isn’t getting any sleep either. She sounds a bit morose, doesn’t she? She is working on Wordle #47 now, and mumbled that it might be ready for me to post later today. If it is just as mournful, I’ll give her the week off. She will have done enough. . .