Would you like to come and see my house? Would you like to visit it and hear her story?
She is old now and a little scruffy as to shrubbery and shutters,
The cracked stucco covered with vinyl-- less glamorous, but more practical.
Don't we all turn to the practical as we age?
Her yard is lush and welcoming, but there are the scars of many happy hours of
Kickball, soccer, tag, and garden-of-statues.
She has always welcomed children.
Come on in.
The front door has been replaced. It sits a little sideways in the frame
And the doorknob tends to fall out when guests attempt to leave.
As though she were saying: no, don't leave yet,
Chat a little while longer, have another coffee.
What is out there that you need so badly?
Stay and rest.
Stepping across her threshold in the morning or in the evening, in particular,
Light pours through the windowed walls, the french doors, the transoms.
Dust motes and dog hair dancing in sunbeams.
The light is the first thing that drew me to this house and
I thought, walking across this threshold will always lift my spirits
Here is joy.
"She's built like a tank, this house" the home inspector told us.
There is an old crack in the foundation, you can see it.
But whatever geological catastrophe caused it has been well-weathered.
The floors creak, and there's a definite slope in the upstairs hall,
But she has settled well and rests on solid ground,
Unshakeable
Her walls are silvery gray.
Underneath are layer upon layer of past fads of garish blues and greens,
But here in her old age, she's taken on the restful colors;
Gray, silver, wood, brick, and beige.
She is a calm cocoon of light and gray,
A wise blend.
And out of every window you can see a dogwood tree,
Or a cherry, crab apple, lilac-- abundant blossoms.
I sit on the back deck, high up in the dogwood, and write,
And ponder, and dream, as old things do.
My thoughts wandering out over the railing, across the mountain,
At peace here.
