Moving Day

Three, I watch her sweep

Each changed, familiar room,

And listen as the broom

Draws shadows out of sleep,

Its song the whisper of leaves

Rustling in papery swarms,

Of snow on my sweeping arms.

Below, the furnace heaves

A sigh and so does she,

Still plying the rhythmic oar

That rows us over the floor,

Through the door, out to sea.

Catherine Tufariello

From Free Time, Robert L. Barth, publisher,
© 2001; first published in The Dark Horse
(Scotland).  Reprinted by permission of the
author.