after tears wear the linen thin

After tears wear the linen thin
on my pillow
we dine with half-washed sticks
on chipped plates
too late to fix.
The sitting room windows—fit for the museum--
their windowglass sags
from age,
like an overused harlot--
the winter whispers slack
through unsealed cracks—
too many painters laid too-thick coats
on her unstripped back.

Thank mercy for the storm windows
in the bedroom.
As for me, I shall turn
this soul-stretched night
on a hole torn
to the sound of heart-strains.
But you will be there,
smiling asleep, knowing
the plates are unchanging sun-yellow
and the windows will
open in spring with redemption—
their singing will bringing
old memories and ancient blessings
for a renewed tomorrow.


after tears wear the linen thin
a poem by troy cady