on nights like this
I wish there were some way
to cut a small slit in the wall
and let the air, trapped since
first construction, spill into
the room and tell its stories.
I wonder who walked these
floors in those first days,
when the pin oak at the curb
was smaller than the house
and the street not so shaded.
I welcome those ghosts,
the spirits that have seeped
into the floors and sit next to us
at dinner, whose luminance
lights our house in the dark.
I remember I am only here
as one who has called this
house a home, worn the finish
off the floors, and left the
lights on in the kitchen.
Peace,
Milton
2 comments:
I love that Milton....Lora Lee
I like the idea that calling a house a home means wearing the finish off the floors.
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