Nothing’s moving
Through this house,
Not a wind,
not a mouse.
Something’s evening
In this house,
Not a sin,
Not a joust.
Nothing’s creeping
Through this pulse,
Not a wish,
Nounse a cyclone.
Something’s settling
Into this house,
Not a win,
An old stone.
Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 9/23/09