2/3/11

An empty wall stands in my home, its surface clean and bare.

Of rooms and halls, this spot alone, shows nothing meant to share.

Each other place holds bric-a-brac, upon which I reflect,

A painting or a photograph, all dear to me, and yet,

As I install these painted scenes, these treasures, toys, and posts,

An empty wall on which to dream, remains what I love most.