neruda sixty-five, altered

matilde, where are you?
i noticed, between the above and below
the tie and heart, a certain melancholy
caught on me: the sudden absence of you.
for my light and air, your atmosphere,
had me looking, consuming
hope in the void where i,
your empty house, was standing,
its tragic windows watching,
the quiet ceiling listening:
old feathers, and rain falling,
imprisoned in a leafless season.
and so i await you to be home again,
and leave the windows open.