Found: My old book of poetry

Solitary Portrait

A window stretches
from floorboard to roof
in the attic of my grandfather’s
mountain home.
Wasps have nested
in each corner
as generations of dust
continue an echoing slumber
on sepia memoirs;
of shadowed kin.

Visits linger
in the back of my brain;
facing the glass picture.
The trees are turning shades of red
as they raise the nerve to strip
bare for their winter debut.

At the hill,
a rectangle of clods
left crumbling and crow-filled
from the fall harvest, while olive
green water moves
in wrinkles,
over the pond
full of dormant bass
awaiting Spring’s feast.

The fresh season
smells with unsullied bursts
of smoke
from the chimney;
released into gray mountain air,
where I am alone
with the ghosts of my dogs
whom I scattered on the brim of these frozen woods.

2005 Chapbook: Until You Release Me