A sweat-wet shirt fallen in the stairwell,
sharp smell of fresh paint held in humid air,
startling wet gleam from stain-free window sill—
Steps creak-sigh with an edge of contentment.
Delighted treads and risers smile and sing
as they escort three climbers to their rooms:
we who at last attend to space and skin
of home—reflection of the souls it holds—
face that greets us as work releases us.
For my prompt at
My blog poems are rough drafts.
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© 2018 Susan L. Chast