I keep returning
to the hearth of Wuthering Heights
as if it is something
of my past. So alive: the fire,
the cold, the dining table
and the oranges.
It keeps coming up
in between the lines of
newspaper, and carries me
to the land
I have lived and
forgotten. Maybe it
was mine. Maybe it still
belongs to me. Maybe there
is a creak left open
for me to return and claim.
I ran free among the marshes.
I sneaked on a pony from the
back door in the evening. I sang
and danced sometimes. But more
often, I wrote and loved
what was not to be done.
It calls me.
But is it even real?
Or am I going mad
reading a lot of the world
that doesn’t exist?
Stay with
Prerna 🙂
