I have walked down these halls at night, amongst the teacups and the bramble, looking for answers, strawberries,… and buttermilk.
At the end of the hall, just waited for the man upstairs to send me a cabbage leaf, but all I hear is the knocking on the beams above, as cold air twists and skips with frosted hooves on the edge of the eaves.
Splattered stars, iced with yesterday’s kisses and regrets, shine in the night sky and buzz against the window screen, where the dusty spider webs of summer hang tattered and chilled.
Cat paws whisper across the floor in the dark, poking into the hard corners of the rooms and the crevices of scattered papers. Eyes in the darkness illuminate the uncertainties that creep up the stairs and slip from chair to chair.
The last taste of midnight, grey ash remnants of dreaming whistles and flying pigs, turns burgundy and then deep violet. Chinese fans fly across the shadows of the window blinds, like bananas in a hungry monkey’s hands. Tomorrow arrives with the frigid air of a pale lemon morning, wearing a gown of glazed smoke and melted mirrors.
Two pounds of butter
on a spider silk drum hums
like baking soda –
Note to self: After a slow breakfast, bake muffins,……. or not ?