This House
       

This house is a fallow field
at season's close
where clay and stones are rife,
but nothing grows,

A graveyard of work begun
and tools untended,
since all your joyful labor
abruptly ended.

What breath can reawaken,
what pulse restart,
the beat that once was steady
in its lost heart?

This house is an old instrument
no longer played,
but loud with silent echoes,
music we made.

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Copyright © 2019 Rhina P. Espaillat All rights reserved
from And After All
Able Muse Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission