The Priory Lit. Mag

Monica Weber
Heart is where the home is.
These, my varied people, gathered
as wind-blown leaves in the silent damp
of a New England Autumn.

Scraped together by the tugging ties of blood
A multiplicity of color, of a frantic pile of names
Blown unwilling by the Wind of Love and Neglect.

We gather in a sacred spot of ritual,
A shrine to our fore-bearer's past,
Of knickknacks, hands, and memories
All worn by time that fades their sharp newness.

The muffled silence
Of closing my mind to Their faults
Rings in my ears.
My blindfold itches but I tie it tight.

These, my wearied people, gathered
before me as scared deer mice,
Groping for companionship,
To reestablish bonds and then forget them,
To return to their windblown lives.

This mask, my face, moves as they want it to,
Bound to my love for Their shrine,
The knickknacks I have sacrificed there
To become dusky memories.

My heart, a basket for Their needs,
Weighs heavy as I sit at their window
And watch the running leaves
Grow still in Their field of frost,
Of cold relationships, of ice bitten spring.

As I stand and lay hand upon my suitcase,
The deer mice scatter. We are no longer blind,
Desperately wide-eyed in the dark ice night.
We see our fellow strangers in the damp light of day
And bid goodbye with a fond smile,
A promise of next year's Autumn.