A Long Time

Her presence is so
assumed that little sounds
morph into her voice.

I am called into the night
by fence twists in the breeze.

Even when we speak
about pain every day
we have sunshine.

Her voice in the squeaks of a chair
draws me into my accustomed family spots,
talk about pain
and before that.

                                                                                                © Don Schaeffer

Loch Raven Review Fall 2005 — Vol. I, No. 1
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