An ordinary day, a quiet day
that draws to an end with the rain
pounding on the slate roof
and the up-and-down
sounds of children on the stairs
no breeze beats the bare branches
that fail to shimmer
with the lack of sun –
hazel trees
that sprang from squirrel hoardings
and have little to look forward to
in the cruellest months
except ugly nakedness
You have to get up very early,
Grandma says,
to see the deer on the lawn
so unsettling, so unearthing
is the look of their eyes
that we humans do all we can
to close our own
and when we look again
they are gone
In the shadow of the sundial
all there is
is an empty flower-pot
standing brick-red
on the wall
with the weak winter sun
filling in the corners of the room
like a yellow crayon
Day
©crisstiena
Adding your comment:
And ooohhh, that last stanza, too, my Friend. What a smorgasbord of metaphor this piece holds within each precious line. One could feast forever on such riches. Good luck in the contest. 
