To the wind

The door is open still,

though moving on the wind.

Who left the house, will she return?

He sees, observes, sits, does nothing.

One squall will shut the door.

Voices, even hands, were raised,

echoes rang against speachless walls.

Remaining: the muffled sound of hearts,

beating in anger, now not in unison.

The dog first fled the house,

then she.

Leaving is not fleeing,

he has to say.

He who is sitting there still,

is fleeing in not following.

He took her keys,

closed the shields,

shut the garden gate,

but left the door to the wind.