The old house,heavy
with layers of white paint,
nudges the slate sidewalk,
speaks of my ancestors'
daily ablutions,and still
holds echos in its walls
of two voices that gave me life.

I fantasize walking
again, on the long porch,
and the door being
flung open to my footsteps-
two people,so happy
to see me, living
many turnpikes away.

The house inside, graced
by very old newly- wed furniture,
china, and silver,
and ancient tin ceilings,
now whispers, " you should
have come to spend his last
Christmas with him.

06/30/2002

Posted on 06/30/2002
Copyright © 2026 Jane E Pearce