Houses wear their history like a
shawl,
draped loosely, with a
pin of years to hold it
together.
Those voices? Your mother, your father?
All gone like a late snow,
and now your own words, dispersing
like wood-smoke
clocking all your years.
Feel the night
walk softly as a fawn through
doors
and peer at itself
through midnight-blind windows.
Hear it husking though the old
wood furnace,
counting all your steps and your
time
until the patient end.
J. Pratt-Walter © 2018
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