Scratches

Scratches in the wood floor hold memories of rushing
to the door hoping to greet the promised wishes of tomorrow.

And the goldfinch hangs upside down on the head of the sunflower
inquiring of the loose, black seeds, Will you feed me?

And the man, perhaps in a long coat, walks into his shadow
as the sun surges upwards over the slope of his shoulder.

And a woman bows her head over her book, not saying a prayer,
but moving her lips soundlessly, speaking to one not there.

And above, the blades of a fan spin, pulling the hot, human air
towards the ceiling of heaven where angels wait.

And all will be well, we are told, when the yearn of one moment 
meets the longing absent in the expectation of the next.