The house
is finally quiet.
The baby tackled
by naptime slumber.
The windows shut tight
like the eyes of the dead.
The faucet,
an open wound,
drips quietly.
While the walls
puff long slow breaths.
Outside,
a cat in heat
warbles with longing.
The wind throws jasmine
into the hot air.
Construction workers
pound an army of nails,
And the world rumbles along.
4 comments:
This is just me, bored, when the baby is asleep. I don't know about the title.
The two words that stand out most to me in this poem that predominately whispers a sense of serenity, is "tackled" and "pound." "Throws" also aligns with these words a bit as well. Together, they jolt my reading experience a bit: I kind of like the jolt, but I wonder if it is thematically consistent. Is this intermingling of the quiet and the loud symbolic of the titular hour, and the shift that follows that strike of the clock?
I wanted to show the relative peace and calm of the inside versus the frenetic' loud world outside. I chse tackled primarily because she doesn't go to sleep without first putting up a fight.
That's what I thought at first, but I think "tackled" (and I do love that image) as well as "warbles" and "rumbles" gave me a different perspective. Then again, I'm probably in the minority in getting a soft vibe from "warbles" and "rumbles."
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