On My Every Wall
My spirit resides in a small family’s home.
I serve to divide up the rooms of that place.
I haven’t got legs; therefore, I can’t roam.
I guess what they see of me there is my face. . .
a surface, which smooth, is painted beige-white.
No ears do I have, and yet I hear all.
No eyes, yet I see everything day and night.
No lungs, yet I breathe; I am every wall.
When holidays come, I inhale such delight:
the sweet scent of cinnamon and fresh baked bread.
I love it when sun through the drapes casts its light,
and also I’m warmed hearing everything said . . .
and sounds of the children laughing with glee,
the soft sounds of love making from their folks’ room
and their music, when played, which permeates me,
dispelling those lonely times I feel such gloom. . . .
for there was a time the kids colored on me.
Their mother got angry, but all I recall
is how small hands scribbled on me eagerly.
Now I long for their touch on my every wall!
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