A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

Warm sun caresses my skin,

strokes my cheek almost tenderly,

reminiscent of your loving touch.

There is a stillness here,

a screaming silence,

and I cannot decide if it is peace

or loneliness, if it is comforting

or an all-engulfing sadness.

High ceilings recreate open spaces;

acoustics that cause my thoughts to resound.

Equally high walls are containing

and restrictive: cold, impassable stone,

that retains the cold of overnight,

a permeating chill

in stark opposition to the sun.

The cold is slowing:

were it not for the gentle contact

with licks of sunshine

that reach through the gaps,

grasping at my skin,

I can see how easy it might be to decelerate and stop.

They named this place a haven,

but I find myself seeking to escape it,

to find my refuge in your arms.

(an old one from 2011)