Rooms

In one, we' ve pushed the piano by the front window. 
No one plays it much these days, because it isn't tuned. We put 
some small potted plants on its top; the light touches them just enough.

Under the eaves: boxes of envelopes and cards collected over the years.
I know which one contains the letter that everyone has been telling me
to burn. Every time I take it out to read I am reduced to despair.

The stairs: most wooden balusters are loose. They swivel
or lift slightly at the base, not completely making the connection.
The handrail is the only thing that keeps them in place.

Heart-shaped leaves press against a north facing window. I moved 
the full-length mirror to the outer edge of one wall so in bed, 
at night, we don't directly face that portal between worlds.

When I am gone, who will use the pottery fired a cloudy 
celadon green, in which the ashes from a volcano have bonded into
the shape of an open mouth, a shallow basin, a vessel to slake thirst?