Writers Are A Funny Breed

It is very quiet here--so still
I don´t live here--I live down the hill
On this winter´s afternoon
The distant sun--it slowly swings the room around
This room hangs on a golden chain
Suspended
Frozen
Frozen in time since you went away

Walking through your rooms I though your things
Fitting--these aren´t fingers these are wings
It says April on your calendar
It´s winter now--I wonder where you are
I hope it´s warm and sunny--or cold and windy
As long as you´re fine

Your house is as tumble-down as mine
Crumpled papers everywhere like mine
This one says "I´ll write no more"
That one says "don´t lock the door"
Writers are a funny breed
I should know

You said someday when we´re pure and high
We won´t need to capture and describe
The things we see or don´t see
We´ll let things be
Let things be
That´s when you´d leave

And that is why I had to come today
My mad scribbling crumpled, crippled, fey
Tossing words from ledges that erode
From ledges--I am not a goat
I am not a piece of chalk
I just want to do it right like you

And now I stand here in your house
Everything´s so still
I wonder if I´ll write again
Or let things be
Writers are a funny breed

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