Blue-Prints
Harriet Dean
Youare a faded shawl about the shoulders of your mother. A puff of wind catches at your fluttering edge to jerk you away. But she draws you close, growing cold in the warm young breeze. She holds you with her shiny round pin, as all young ones are clasped to old by round things grown shiny with age.
In your wistful tired eyes I see the trembling of her shawl as she breathes.
When your house grows too close for you,When the ceilings lower themselves, crushing you,There on the porch I shall wait,Outside your house.You shall lean against my straightness,And let night surge over you.
When your house grows too close for you,When the ceilings lower themselves, crushing you,There on the porch I shall wait,Outside your house.You shall lean against my straightness,And let night surge over you.
When your house grows too close for you,When the ceilings lower themselves, crushing you,There on the porch I shall wait,Outside your house.You shall lean against my straightness,And let night surge over you.
When your house grows too close for you,
When the ceilings lower themselves, crushing you,
There on the porch I shall wait,
Outside your house.
You shall lean against my straightness,
And let night surge over you.