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 beside the stockings of ghosts.
House has a heart- a pulse- 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 dreams.
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're pockets and niches
whose purpose is long forgotten.
Just like I will soon be.
A 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.
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