On Leaving

Phillip Brown

Today, again
I must leave.

The house is still,
reverent and slow
like an empty chapel,
lit by the quiet light
of an overcast day
glowing in the windows,
hushed upon the painted walls—
the light that renders
everything pale and gray.

And the rain begins,
tapping on the windowpanes,
obscuring the trees that stand outside
with heads bowed beneath the clouds,

as I wander the house
treading softly the stillness,
gathering it like stones found in sand—
the shadow asleep beneath the chair,
the light spread like a cloth on the sill,
the bit of silence lingering in the hallway—
each touched and held tightly
for a moment,
then stowed away in my pockets
for keeping.

I would stay forever here
in this simpleness,
but the world—always moving—
is demanding its token, as it has before.

And so today, again
I must leave.

I draw my raincoat
from the closet
and put it on,
slipping the hood over my head

and I cup my hands
and blow gently
on the coals burning low
in the lamp of my heart
and whisper to myself
courage, courage.

Standing in the open doorway—
the rain suddenly a thundering
as it beats upon the pavement—
I am already longing for return,

for the other side of the door,
entrance instead of exit,
welcoming and familiar like
the arms of a friend.

I reach for the stillness
and wrap it around me
like a second coat,
and tentatively—one shoe forward—
I step outside

easing away from the house
like a boat released from its moorings,
and I feel my heart quicken
perhaps a little
as I enter the current,
drawn steadily down the street.