An eidetic willow reads the house,
chuckles at the acts, bends in tension
having a sneak peek at the knives
kept in a leash inside the blindfold of drawers.
Today it follows the house-daughter’s narrative
sprawled all over the living room, stairs,
and even between the couches’ operose clefts.
And even in the couches’ cleavages.
for a moment her face floats up to the caliginous pane.
If the tree would make a scrapbook with those
the pages would expunge the moments every Autumn.
The knives would remain. The face – in some orphanage.
Death grows up to be death.