From where I sit at the worn oak table
in the center of the kitchen
at the heart of the house,
I see the sunset–
orange, gold, red, yellow–
perfectly framed in the warped screen door
leading to the back porch,
where the railing leans outward,
and the steps are scuffed free of paint.

A screen is nothing but a web of holes,
through which the breeze reaches me,
fingers my hair,
fingers the paper I'd stopped reading 10 minutes earlier,
fingers the memories of hearts no longer gathering
around the worn oak table
in the center of the kitchen
at the heart of the house.

Text and image © 2012 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.