Look at Your Fish

The crackling candle sits on the study old table.
I sit on the chair that creaks as you relax and settle.
Then,
Silence.
But silence is relative,
And I,
I look at my fish.
The soft orange light
From the old lamp
Glares at the old leather couch
That was gently beaten in
By all that have come across it.
The gap below the couch,
So small,
That dust struggles to find its way in,
But not so small that
The fingers
Of a young child,
Years ago,
Slipped under to grasp the little painting
Of the tree out of the window.
I look out.
The tree nurturing my thoughts as I look
As it has done
For so many years.

The room is small,
Filled with the stuff I have compiled
Over
Years
And years,
And now in this moment,
In my frame of view,
I see the beauty,
Beauty of the bed below the window,
Never made,
The blanket folded in the most comforting of ways,
And the indent in the pillow still prominent.
The window sill begins
Where the bed ends,
Cracked open,
Not cold,
Yet,
But the sun staring over the houses
At the tree,
Or maybe the room,
Or maybe me,
Reminds me
I only have so much time
To look at my fish.
The light
Seems to refract
Over the blossoms of the tree and through the window.
The refraction fades as the sun
Brings joy,
Pain,
And love
To the deserving other half of the world.

I blow out the candle
And shut out the light.
Here comes the darkness,
Pattering rain,
And crisp air
That will put me to sleep
As it has done for so many years.