The Tomorrow House

In the tomorrow house,
a roof of light,
doors and hallways
empty rooms…

…where time does not advance…

… no clocks ticking,
no breath of change.

In the tomorrow house,
the click of cooling stone,
the whisper of wind in woodwork
punctuates a silence…

…where there is nothing …

…but the patience of a future
deciding its moment to arrive.

In the tomorrow house,
walls lean into corners,
windows look away;

even distance is a trick
of sunlight hesitating.

In the tomorrow house,
there is nothing to be done…

…but wait for what has yet to be,
somewhere, in the tomorrow house.

© BH, 2022

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It was only the title, I suppose, as I was scratching around for an idea. Out of that - I got senses of hiatus, expectancy, stillness of a kind. Looking back now on it, of course, I think of time embedded in place - and place itself emptied - all things of substance postponed until some future decides to manifest them.

Or is it just plain weird?