Landscape

by Greg Watson

Calm simplicity of the hardwood
floor, measured by miles
and miles of thought—one page of sunlight
open where you left it, unable
or unwilling to read further.
The voices have all passed through,
the sighs of love slipped beneath
other doors without warning.
What to say now of the claw-footed bathtub
glowing cool and spotless
as a snowdrift, soft cotton plains
of the bed not slept in?
The silence of these rooms
bears no malevolence, nor the absence
you presume, but welcomes
your return like a mother, like a lover
faithful as time. Shadows thread
the familiar to the familiar; the landscape
on the wall goes on and on.