The Eves Of The Weary House Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Coming down from your tree,
Your teeth clenching fruit, I can see who you are
As your ankles nimbly go,
But when asked if you were one of the survivors,
You said no, then bit your nails as the clouds hurried
In like young professors into class, spilling insouciant
Books, casting shade-
There was only a little blood until perplexed,
Your eyes fawned on fields further away,
And so you fell, but its wasn’t too far....
Like origami caught in the hands of the wind
You took your bow so your jeans were painted green:
I tried to read you, or so I’ve said
Until the sunset and the clouds repeated themselves,
And there was no more light to follow your beauty by,
And your daughter ran away so I could never see her face,
Though still you remained there underneath her bows,
Your hair curling down in little temptations of undying cells,
Your lips matriculated a little ways from themselves,
But you did not cry;
For all I know, you remain there still just a little ways down,
And the dirt road to you is lined with shells, and immaculate
Fossils, the creations of your ancestors,
Pressed into your palm with scrapes and blood, and the waves
Hurry in to see you, bringing in the flood where blossoms swirl
Like pirouettes of little girls, though still you remain so calm;
All the way up to your neck, the water kissing bows,
And still your remain like an opal statuette with eyes
Of teary salt, as your mother calls and calls,
And the sun finally sets across the eves of the weary house.