Cocoons

She dwelled in her dreams
waiting for her chance to flutter
underneath her gray hair and liver spots.
But she smiles to think in consolation's pride
of her four fledglings given their glides
even after her husband died in the war.
Oh the haven her wooden cocoon has been
draped in the design of Victorian passions,
ivory timbers aged and brittle now
like their mistress,
though it can’t keep her heart
from the beauty of love’s butterfly dance.

Outside the small town denizens
pass by with speculation and ponder
those strange noises coming from inside
made easy to explain since television came
when she played it so loud from her poor hearing,
yet it never seemed to truly justify
what minds conjured from a distance.

Within are the tales left to imagination
for she keeps her smile as seal over her pains,
on the wall are preserved the residue of her life,
each precious collage of winged moments.

Perhaps those fables of the past
still hold sovereignty over her abode
about the occupancy by witches and warlocks
before it became her womb of marriage and motherhood.

Still, October paints it with the hues of creepy vibrations
as youths come to taste her oatmeal cookies and admire her charms,
because this residence is the masterful abode of curiosity
on the road to the small town
filled with minds living on an era of private fancy adventures.

Maybe there were ghosts in the halls
or one more shadow that moved when it shouldn’t,
broken fence and a porch in disrepair
were normal enough
until the rocking chair moves by itself
and window opens on the second floor
when no hands are seen nearby.

Surely there is a reason,
is what the closest neighbors say
who cope with the crunch in the stomach
each time they walk by.

Granny still shows love more than hate
warms by the hugs and soft words,
never will it end the wonder
what happens behind that closed door.

Wind alone whispers the truth,
nobody really is listening
since magic is a must in a village of tears.