You’ve come back
to the rooms of our house
where speech died
and a breathing stone filled our bed.
You leave a trail of crumbs
to lead me to you,
thinking, perhaps, that I will follow
like a hen
grateful for food,
for a lighted place to grow old.
But I have closed and shuttered myself.
I will keep this darkness and chill,
feel my way like the blind
© 2016 Karen Kleis – All Rights Reserved
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