Something Old As New (Revision 2c)

[danny_]

Revision 2c (Thank you Richard, Knott, vagabond, alexorande) Still open to critique.

Something Old As New

We'd shoot old houses
in bright winter sun,
tips of frail branches almost
touching the remaining panes.

Frosted dry grass crunched;
we found angles from the border of trees,
kneeled and damped our jeans,
framed the crooked porch,
weathered sashes and quiet road.

Cheeks flush, short hair
curled around your ears.
Our breath vanished quickly.

Your careful hands on the back door -
I focused there, rotating the lens:
chipping white paint
and your fingertips in the light.

We never got inside,
only peered into dark rooms,

then climbed a sycamore
to the lower roof
to be sun-warmed together
beside the chimney
under a single telephone wire
that hasn't carried a voice in years,

but if it was speaking now
it would talk of pleasant company,
how we sat hunched together
as I took your hands in mine,
cupped them,
and gently blew inside.

Revision 2b:

Something Old As New

We'd shoot old houses
in bright winter sun,
tips of frail branches almost
touching the remaining panes.

Frosted yellow grass crunched.
We found angles from the border of trees,
kneeled and wet our knees,
framed the crooked porch,
weathered door and quiet road.

Cheeks flush, short hair
curled around your ears.
Our breath vanished quickly.

Your careful hands touched the door -
I focused there, rotating the lens:
chipping white paint
and your fingertips in the light.

We never got inside,
only peered into dark rooms,

then climbed a sycamore to the lower roof
to be sun-warmed beside the chimney
under a single telephone wire
that hasn't carried a voice in years.

But if it was speaking now
it would talk of pleasant company,
our careful steps and whispering,

our sitting hunched together
as I took your hands,
cupped them in mine,
and gently blew inside.



Revision 1:

Something Old As New

In bright winter sun we
would shoot old houses,
tips of frail branches almost
touching the window glass.

Yellow, frozen grass
crunched under our feet.
Our cold fingers
found the buttons of our cameras.

We found angles from the border of trees,
kneeled and wet our knees,
framed the crooked porch,
weathered door and quiet street.

Cheeks flush, short hair curled
around your ears.
Our breath vanished quickly.

We never got inside,
only looked through
into dark rooms,

then took a sycamore to the roof
to be sun-warmed by the chimney
under a single phone wire
that hasn't carried a voice in years.

But if it was speaking now,
it would talk of pleasant company
and our careful steps,
and our whispering,

and our sitting hunched together
as I took your hands,
cupped them in mine,
and gently blew inside.


Original:

Something Old as New
In the sun in wintertime we
would shoot old houses,
red shutters,
tips of frail branches almost
touching the window glass.

Yellow, frozen grass
crunched under our footsteps.
Our fingers were cold,
found the buttons of our cameras.

We found angles from the shadows of trees,
kneeled and wet our knees,
framed the quiet streets
that ran through the town.

Cheeks flush, short hair curled
around your ears.
Our breath vanished quickly.

Your careful hands touched the old door.
I focused in closely,
magnifying the chipping white paint
and your fingertips in the light.

We never got inside,
only looked through windows
into dark rooms.

We took a sycamore to the roof
to be sun-warmed by the chimney
under a single phone wire
that hasn't carried a voice in years.

Hunched together in that small angled place
I took your hands,
cupped them in mine,
and blew inside.