Siesta

Sunlight filtered through

the barred windows

of an old home,

through mosquito screens

grey, riddled randomly

with holes, and rust,

and years and years'

layers of dust.

It was mid-afternoon,

when the clouds parted,

and the rays shone

into a dim living room,

illuminating a troop of ants,

journeying along timidly,

in small insignificant steps.

Somewhere in the home,

a love song played

on an old pocket radio.

Outside, a dog

was pacing the floor

of his little wooden cage.

He whined a soft yawn,

before settling down

for a nap.

Then it was quiet,

except for rustling leaves

of an avocado tree.

She leaned heavily to the side

with ripening fruit

of the summer's labor,

watching over

the freshly washed sheets

fluttering lazily

on the clothes line,

the comforting scent

of fabric softener

wafting into the air.

A warm breeze blew in

through the open windows,

and rattled the screens.

Sending dust motes

dancing into the light,

spiraling each other,

saying goodbye,

as I shook awake,

twenty years later,

They glittered in my mind.