Clean Washed Stars After Rain
The Bucciano/Conlon Project
We live in secret. No one comes to our house. We don't go out, except for necessities. He goes to work,
when he works. I go to school. But the world outside this house and the tree-heavy property behind
becomes less and less real or relevant. What I need is in this house and its simple wood-paneled
rooms, in the patchy gold-green grass beside the back porch, in the odor of the wood cuttings and
dirt outside. In the sun breaking through the morning branches and pouring through our window.
In the autumn rain tinseling down from beyond the highest trees. In the clean washed stars after
rain, in the music of the crickets and katydids in the luminous dark. In the not-quite-silent
snow that whispers as it touches the roof and windows. All I need is here.
From "Whisper" copyright © 2001 by Christopher Conlon