To that peaceful space, her sanctuary
she longs to return in the waning light.
Wanting only to escape the creeping night,
that damned memory, a bitter sour cherry,
that invades as the road becomes solitary.
At last, the door opens to the welcome sight,
illumined in the warmth of candlelight,
her poems, her violets, her private aerie.
Her heart hears the rustling of silent things,
beyond the storm, where in her safe harbor,
she can feel a touch, her next lover’s soul.
In her studio all dreams can grow wings,
to soar above pain. Or, beat the tabor,
exciting the heartbeat, making it whole.
The Rustling of Silent Things
by Jeff Reeve
La stanza dei ricordi (il fruscio delle cose silenziose) , watercolor and gouache on paper, cm 55x65
dedicated to my "gardener of violets"
