Category: Poetry

She is an old house with a granite facade, in need of repairs here and there, but still standing.

The Builder crafted her of the finest materials.  Her interior, a warm blend of exotic woods–cherry, walnut, maple, oak–invites  privileged visitors to stay a while, but not too long. Her inhabitants have a lot to do.

She overflows, like a kindergarten desk, papers sticking out willy-nilly, a house stuffed with words, drawing, ideas, books, an attic full of memories. Her inhabitants have tried to bring order to the chaos, but the universe within her walls keeps expanding, refusing the efforts of her most expert housekeepers.

The Gardener haphazardly planted her garden. She stands firmly rooted in that place as a lone bristle cone pine on a high mountain pass, surrounded by the fruits and flowers of the seeds that the gardener cast many years ago.

You stand firmly westward, built on a foundation of granite blocks, planted in the black soils of the Mississippi. The Builder placed you on a bluff above the only section of the river that flows from East to West, a place where you have a clear view of the land, the smooth waters, and the people who toil on them.

A quiet house, with thick walls and triple-insulated windows, you ward off the unwanted advances of Mid-western winter, settling comfortably under a blanket of snow, thwarting the harsh winds that tear at your roof shingles. When the floods come you are untouched, above the fray, and safe from the water snakes that hang from branches below in the aftermath of it all, snakes that enter only in dreams.

Within your walls, your inhabitants are industrious, always working on a project to improve the slightest malfunction. Never a burned out light bulb, a broken door knob; what gets broken is quickly repaired. And yet, your dwellers live in ordered chaos, stacks of knowledge that have been consumed, or will be soon. You are a thoughtful place with a clear view through large windows. Reflected clouds protect outsiders from seeing in.

Your attic is full, bursting with memories and objects left behind by those who have lived within your walls. Framed photos of Swedes you never knew from the old country, broken lamps, rocking chairs, the lathe that formed the spindles of the staircase leading to this cluttered and emotion-laden place.

I have good bones, the sort of house that will remain standing through earthquakes, hurricanes, and tornadoes. My bones are hewn of ancient white oak, rescued wood from an old barn in Pennsylvania. I am built traditionally, with mortis and tenon joinery, despite my modern design.

I am a modestly proportioned open-architecture house with airy rooms and many windows, oriented to the south-west, overlooking the sea, or perhaps it is a desert.  I have a view far into the distance, and those who are near to me can see plainly within, all except the hidden interior rooms, which few people ever gain sight of. I am more than meets the eye.

I am furnished comfortably and simply. Nothing is overly planned or decorated. I am graced with splashes of color, a bright rug thrown here and there over the cool polished mud floor. My inhabitants gather around my hearth, and in my kitchen on cold nights. In the heat they take comfort in the cool breeze that I pass through from transom to transom. During more turbulent times, my job is to protect, to adjust my inner workings to the unexpected events that come from outside.

Many live here—human, spirit, canine, feline, insect, bird, and rodent. I am nothing without those who dwell within. If I had no life within my walls I would cease to exist, for a house is nothing if nobody lives inside of it. In this regard I am high maintenance, requiring constant upkeep, the reassurance that I am loved, needed. While my bones are strong, the rest is rather fragile. One thrown stone would shatter my glass walls.