An Unfurling

an unfurling

by fourth year Claire D’Agostino

change comes in the morning,

in a ray of sunshine through the blinds.

the room is dominated by dancing darkness;

vying for the most important role—to take up the most space.

the tulips have not yet bloomed in the vase,

although I think the color is reminiscent 

of the sweetest, ripened apricot.

looking out the window, I imagine 

the backyard is an enchanted forest.

a tufted titmouse perches on the sill—

singing a joyous melody, one that does not reach 

the cat watching him from behind the glass.

the compactness of the space

could lend itself to claustrophobia;

but instead, entire worlds are strewn about the room,

living on dusty shelves untouched by spring cleaning.

in the cerulean sea, a house is made a home—

salty sea air the background for a family chosen.

still the regency world of england sits close by,

where ladies walk through gardens full of roses.

the walls, too, are a gallery for memories. 

even when nobody is home,

they have a captive audience:

permanently friendly faces observing from the bed.

a sanctuary, not quickly formed, is created.

the creatures on the shelves have their own world,

and even they know that

when the trees have lost their leaves,

and the georgia red clay leaves the ground barren—

dry, broken, and with no room for anything to grow;

still, life is created.

the sun continues to break through the dirt,

never giving the flowers a chance to truly die.