chagall backdrop

I’m past that point of convenient landmark
someplace to tether and one day to mourn,
where the whistles of birds are the strange ones
that you don’t always hear though they call.

Once a freckle, captured, amazed me for hours
as it danced on the tip of your nose.

Obliged to convey the lightness of hours,
she is behind the pale curtain, diaphanous sun.

The shutters slam shut as the wind blows,
kicks in gear with the upcoming storm,
brings the darkest grays while white scented pillows,
when the rain comes, lie softer still.

© Chagall 2014