A woman called house

House just turned one hundred years old wooden floors preserve foot-fossils of ancestors. A fresh coat of paint cannot muffle yesterday's fireplace carolers. Our stockings hang aside the stockings of ghosts. House has a heart-a pulse-is layered in golden life tones. I feel at ease in every honey smoked room and perfectly balanced on the uneven floors I don't mind the infinite cobwebs that once were catchers of dream. Its three peaks and thirteen stairs had significant meaning to past tenants. It means nothing now for certain -but it doesn't matter. I respect their strong marriage to the pastel past. There's pockets and niches whos' purpose is long forgotten Just like I will soon be. Discarded tin can in a wildflower field. Winter evenings that I spend with house are the warmest I've ever had. I pray it feels the same about me... hanging a stocking filled with endless gifts from a pale, blue collared memory.