Fickle Peace

There is no telling with peace.

It steals into the brain quietly,

nothing so intrusive and blatant

as doorbells or invitations.

Instead it slips coolly through the cracked window

with the fresh air and smell of approaching fall,

the musty browns and crisp oranges.

It lingers as long as you take no notice,

filling in your routine gestures

with its simple mulberry glow.

Yet, when gawked at it bends and flees

taking the draft of autumn's brisk air along.

The doors that have been slowly creaking open

slam.

And you avert your gaze,

hoping it will be fooled into believing

that you never looked, but it won't.

And you will, instead, survive

by moving aimlessly around the house,

shutters closed and locked waiting

for your brain to stop spinning and leave room

for the soft return of fickle peace.