HOME The slow tune of an Autumn breeze thrills his nerves while walking home. Hands press fair foliage flat on skinny shouldered tree. White walls... two windows open wide wave flames through glossy panes. He wanders over twigs washed by a foggy sun, light cracks of drumming hearts and chuckles jingle as silver coins in the pockets of twilight. The depth of breathing, his palm now firmly guides the key to unlock the door. He enters home... The weather speaks of coming rain.
Paula Grenside's Questions:
The poem speaks of going home on an autumnal afternoon, but can be read as a metaphor for life and aging. Are the two meanings clear to the reader?
I'm not satisfied with " chuckles". Any suggestion?