(Untitled)

Sitting cross-legged on the floor
(from whence I may never be able to rise)
I watch dust motes swirl like tiny planets
in a parallel galaxy, WhoVilles for the real
world.  The corner is shadowed from the slash
of sunlight and I can almost understand
the language of hungry birds as it floats
in the window on the smell of newly bloomed lilacs.

I would eat chocolate chip cookies if there were any,
keep the crumbs to toss at the fussy wren
which really only wants a safe nest – not
so different after all from me.  Darkness swirls
in and the sun disappears behind the glower
of storm clouds, but still throws random prisms –
the assurance of rainbows that there will be no flood,
this time, fire now being the destruction of choice.

Somewhere in the house is a clock that ticks and,
soon the mail will fall through the door slot.
In the kitchen something smells burned.  I
am looking for a password or passage way
from here to there, have lost the direction
or maybe never had it in the first place, should
rather be looking for markers, or bread, or a long
piece of red twine leading to an open door.