Writers Are A Funny Breed

It is very quiet here--so still I don't live here--I live down the hill On this winter's afternoon The distant sun--it slowly swings the room around This room hangs on a golden chain Suspended Frozen Frozen in time since you went away Walking through your rooms I though your things Fitting--these aren't fingers these are wings It says April on your calendar It's winter now--I wonder where you are I hope it's warm and sunny--or cold and windy As long as you're fine Your house is as tumble-down as mine Crumpled papers everywhere like mine This one says "I'll write no more" That one says "don't lock the door" Writers are a funny breed I should know You said someday when we're pure and high We won't need to capture and describe The things we see or don't see We'll let things be Let things be That's when you'd leave