Roy Herndon Smith
In the old house, drafts,
the wafts of the constant wind
washing illusions
of castles, borders,
walls, and hard definitions—
what I think I know—
into eerily
familiar tranquility—
emptiness become
spaciousness between
the steady hum of the fridge,
barely felt heartbeat,
and shadows gently
lucent in watery light—
mind, matter, you, I
marrying, making
never put asunder love,
the abiding all.
dust 