across the cortex of my eyes
My humors break, and make
pictures, dancing shadows, light.
through Winter's green
and bare brown leaves
I pass through rooms, a silent ghost
Bare feet and cloudy sight
half whole and half unknown
My hair a mess of springy curls
My pen, my soul, at home.
(I have been unwell for days. Except for the candle flame of your love and comments, I have been a shadow of myself, a camouflage of the grey January rain outside. Today, though, the sun poured through the house, spotlighting the tidy rooms, the air of celebration my brother has created in honour of the arrival of our house guest, his girlfriend, who is on a flight from Malaysia as I write. Welcome home Angelina!)