Evening Chair

Quiet corner, quite room,
evening folds around me –
shadows blur to unseen gloom
misshaping all to “could be” –

Bookcase cast in softened light
hinting names in titles worn –
desk and paintings fade from sight
as I set back to purpose born –

How this quiet has me held,
enamored so, I have fell
to count the details calling…

This house in hush and breathing
counts odd seconds as they fall,
that as the smoke from fingers rolls
its dance is timed to ticked-tock heaving,
and there my attention’s called –

Burns and Poe and Rupert Brooke
mingle with the Malbec here,
that fills my glass and so my mind,
and rests in heap beside my chair –

I sit without a care –
to watch what’s left of evening’s din.
I sit to grasp each moment,
pained and slow and let each in –

Silent corner, silent gloom,
my world enfolds around me –
my conscious darkened to this room,
awakens all that could be!