A high note trembling upon the string of a violin;
a delicate glass bird perched on the edge of a writing desk.
The whistle of fireworks in a black sky;
the blurring and clacking spokes of a bicycle wheel.
Piano keys mumbling in a muted minor key;
the empty corner of a playroom with a soft carpeted floor.
The papery rustle of chiffon and linen;
a rosebush with dark green leaves in late summer.
The squelch of a ripe orange being stepped on;
garden weeds uprooted by hands in thick rubber gloves.
The muffled sound of running water in a faraway room;
tumbled bedsheets of red and white silk at dawn.
The shrieks and yowls of an unfamiliar stray;
the discordant twinkling of woodland fireflies.
A housecat’s steady purr to itself;
warm sunlight falling upon a cup of tea and the morning mail.
L Friedman is a writer of poetry and prose, a student of history, and a devotee of the Gothic and the Shakespearean. They live in New England and can be reached by howling into the void – or, more reliably, at https://crookedbutinteresting.wordpress.com.