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The Poetry of Houses

I wish every house had its own poet

to write about the way

they heard the rain against the windows

the wind assault the shutters

while they rested in their beds

and looked out through which doorway

when their heart was aching.


I wish every house had a poet

so I could read about their days

their children’s laughter

how Christmas smelled

was someone born

did someone pass

did sickness come

what songs were sung


Then as I moved from house to house

a volume could be found

left on a table in the hall -

a book with gilt edged pages

to hold an understanding

of feelings left behind.


If I were poet of my house

I would write the smell of cedars

and the way pine wood thickets make soft carpets underfoot.

I would make a rhyme of clouds and seas and mountains -

stanzas of my favorite rooms

but mostly,

if I were poet of my house

I would write of emptiness and how

I tried to fill my house with words

             when I abandoned love.

2 Comments (Add Yours)

  1. gorgeous.

    those last few lines…wow

  2. awed. your words transport me to a time and place that is not here and now, but somewhere magical where i can taste and feel whatever visions you conjure up.

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