2-6 A Knock At The Door

at first,
there was quiet,

in the house of September,
when the cold north wind blew,
she blew softly,
at first,

he slept,
I composed,
waited for the finches to arrive,
watched my shadow watch
the sky, turn blue, looking
at me in my head,

when the north wind blew,
cold, he blew softly,
at first,

kissed my forehead,
gentle, then

slamming on the brakes,
squealed through the lawn,
ripping up the green fury,
in his eyes, unleashing,
his manic howl,
while she held on to me,
quietly, arm in arm,
watching me watch my shadow,
watch the sky turning blue,
we've been here before,

in the house of September,
when the first flakes fell,
there was one, me,
and him, and then
when he awoke to the car crashing,
outside, alarms blaring,
tires squealing, beating,
knocking at our door,
while she quietly held on to my arm,
he came downstairs,
wide-eyed, and then,

when the cold north wind blew,
there was two.