At Christmas

you surprised me with an old wooden box.

Inside were assorted paints,

brushes and gel.

Five days ago

when the snow started to fall,

you asked if I'd like

to draw a still life.

You are sleeping

and sawing

a gentle swing.

If I look out your

kitchen window

the world is wet,

a blanket now

of winter ice.

Yesterday you cleared

a closet in a room.

You pulled framed

pictures from a drawer

and unused ornaments

from a shelf. 

You swept up remnants

of a small child's play.

You packed your wife's

clothes away and called

a daughter to share

more of her mother's heart.

A wool sweater, brown

and delicate had at 

some point hosted

a buff-colored moth.

The night is middling

and I am standing at

the door of this

room in which I

am not well acquainted. 

"A place to create,

or just to get away

when you are here,"

you said.

A quiet, still room

where you simply

draped and shadowed

a gold-checkered

cloth juxtaposed

with  two burgundy apples,

a mountain potter's bowl,

one candle, and the

Biltmore wine

we almost finished

with our meal on Sunday. 

Scupper © 2/2010