by Gregg Weatherby
September the leaves already float
against the window like ghosts
bringing dreams
of places you never intended
where time is kept by bells
some forgotten or broken items
disappear into thin night
a glass set on a table
a teacup in a saucer
windchimes in dead calm
the old floorboards creak and pop
whine of old timbers
a sigh through the walls
any of these sounds might move
the house marks a passage
images frail and fragile
sometimes a breeze brings
a slight scent of age
of clear blue sky
when the windows shudder
I pull the blanket over my head
like a cowl
let the cold wind pass by
it’s all about the dark
sometimes I stay up all night
waiting
Gregg Weatherby is a poet, actor, and scholar. He has also been a ranch foreman, deckhand, bartender, and managing editor of SPIN Magazine (among others). He has published three chapbooks of poetry: Under Orion (Pudding House), Bone Island, and Approaching Home (Finishing Line Press). He lives in Ithaca, New York.