Winter Hours by Robert Hilles

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Winter Hours

Downstairs in our small guest room

A spider claims one corner

Of the ceiling

Its web but thin lines

Of grey against yellow

In the last picture I took of my brother

He managed only half his puckish smile

His eyes so sunken he looked starved

His hands marked up as though

He had to claw his way back to us.

His gaze was to one side

He didn't want to be seen like this.

There is no moment of time

That does not contain time

After the picture

My brother returned to the couch

We listened together

To Blue Rodeo's - Five days in May

Caught in the song's moment of forgetting

But all songs come to an end.

I get up now and leave the spider

To its work

When I return in a day or two

There will be no spider and

Only a few strands of web

Barely visible in the stirred air.