the house we stayed at on the hood canal sparked my imagination with its age. kind of like trees, it makes me wonder what the house has seen. I poemed it:
the wooden floors creak with the weight of ghosts
that live on through us, the still-breathing hosts
of an old house history
enablers - or partakers?
as past scenes we replay.
upstairs - a young man lays down his new bride
and oh so gently, to the soft dove's cry,
undoes each pearl button
the whole length of her dress,
down to her sweet skin glow.
below - in the heat of a midnight wrath
a man lashes out at the face in his path -
tender love she spoke but
now he cradles her head,
weeping, bloody & broke.
by the stove - mother pulls steaming warmth
from the heat and stoops to snuggle her fourth -
a quiet, clinging child
who will play just outside
and always comes when called.
out on the deck - a withered woman waits
patient and frail in the arms of the Fates
she gathers her shawl as
the dusk settles in and
her breath ebbs with the tide.
the door handles stick and the hinges squeak
the house spirit will find a way to speak
as our stories combine
with the voices long dead
- imprints we barely find.
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