Under the Eaves

Under the Eaves
By Melody Beerbower, 2-24-14

There's a musty, misty corner,
A dusty, dirty place,  
Where spiderwebs hang neglected
In dirt and grime encased. 

The stale wind whispers quietly
Strange utterances in the ear,
Half formed ideas of loneliness,
Of love, of hope, of fear. 

The limpid blue of flashlight
Chases shadows before its pallid beam,
Sets them dancing on the ceiling 
In a clouded, haunting dream.

Somewhere the languid drip of water
Taps a hollow rhythm on the floor.
The far-off voices of unseen people
Mingle in mystic underscore.

And there I sit with pen in hand
And paper on my knee
And think and wish and hope and dream
Quiet, calm, and free.