“grandma’s attic,” New Era, Aug. 1987, 28
my step on a creaking stair
blends with the insistent rain
pattering roof, splattering window
calling me up.
muted tones, basking in half-light
from the lonely, naked bulb
swinging in silence.
i kneel by a trunk
reverently shaking memories from ancient dresses,
reading them in yellowed letters,
putting them on with a faded, fragile hat.
dusty dreams of long ago
take me captive into their world
play on the stage of my mind.
“if only things could speak,” think i,
“what stories could be had!”
yet silence reigns in this kingdom
with only dark and musty musings
to bring the past to life.