Dust to Dust

Birds no longer flock
to this house, this
pale blue block house,
tucked in-between other
pale coloured block houses
with sloping green grass
and draperies pulled just so.

Birds can smell sadness;
they sense the soot that seeps,
unseen by others, from beneath
door jambs and windows.

They know that such soot comes
from fires fueled first by sweet kisses
then words spilt in anger, snuffed
next into cinders by silence.

Birds soar past this house,
heads bent, dark commas in a blue sky.

Ignored, their birdseed has molded
into gray clumps. Leaves mound
themselves into tight piles
in the backyard for comfort.

Even the squirrels disappear.
They can't bear the faces
they occasionally see, day's end
and morning, peering
through hazed windows,
eyes bleak as the meanest night.

Pris Campbell
2005

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