squeak and shuffle

Laundry is done almost daily on my narrow lane in Evora. Across the way, two ladies lean out two separate windows of two separate second floor abodes. I see them rarely, one in her shift not bothering to acknowledge me, the other with a scowl when I first peered out.  The source of the squeaking and shuffling was found to be their lines of laundry set out to dry overnight, the heave-ho of their bare arms as they draw each item in to put away.

“nothing to hold on to”

consumed in

passion and grief

overlong then

naught but

existence and being

unseen truly, deeply 

all along as-is

“Once inside you’re afraid they’d find…” ~ Cowboy Junkies, Ring on the Sill

last trace

I’ve lost in a 

small space an

even smaller thing 

the last thread to

the last trace of

remnants, story of

a lost time in

a lost place of

my beginning