Friday, December 25, 2009

Old Houses

How does one contain years,
In a barrel like rain,
Echoes in echoes?
In archives of the brain
Are endless selves
And more stored in
Footfalls from the floor,
Reverberating shelves,
Old doors swung open
And black water rimmed
In staves , hollow lapping
Sounds --cellar toads.
In codes of shadow,
Webby light and seasons
Stored in secrecy is
Resonance, frequencies
Of old houses, libraries,
Years that formed the
Years that formed us.
There are brighter things
To be, but none so
Thrilled in mystery.


  1. Exactly! You capture how I feel about living in my old house in Santa Cruz for over 30 years. While I miss that, I still have it in dreams and memories...and encounter it in poems like this! Thanks!

  2. I remember that house, Will! It had the world attached to it at all sorts of odd, seaside-mountain angles that we flatlanders seldom see out our windows --magical place.

    Poem stemmed from late-night reflections on getting bathroom and laundryroom replumbed before holiday visits, labors that composed a true and practical Christmas miracle here.

  3. Nice. I'm always attracted to old buildings and their air of secret mysteries and histories.

    1. Thanks, Elizabeth. Old buildings do have a way of making explorers of us --like good teachers!


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