THE ROOM


by 
Gwen Austin


Copyright 1999

Cold, dark, dreary,
faded rug worn weary,
gray-black wood stove,
flecked with white fly-ash,
looms cold and dread.

Pendulum hangs limp
in antique grandfather clock,
its hands motionless
where they stopped.

Fly-specked windows haze the view
of autumn's gems, yellow, gold, red.
Golden white pine needles
windrowed on rock-pillared porch,
whisper, 'Abandoned.'

Soon, crackling fire blazes,
tickling cold corners into warmth.
Key-wound clock
resumes its comforting 'tick-tock.'

Windows, wiped and washed,
welcome setting sun-rays in.
Swept porch, with rockers upright,
extends a welcome invite
to bundle up and sit awhile,
until fall's chill drives us in.

Candles' glow dances
on stone fireplace mantle,
causing mica chips
to glitter and prance
on white, gray, black and pink rocks.

Long after dinner guests have gone,
the room echoes with stories and laughter.
Sustaining joy of connecting again
with good friends of old,
makes us sigh with happiness.
and a heartfelt 'Amen.'

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