This living house roots me to the earth, each
raindrop whispering to the chimney pots
holds me underneath settling rafters' creaks:
arthritic joints under the eaves. Walls scoff,
defying the call to return to clay,
as I resist for as long as I can.
This house, this confluence of walked pathways,
begins and ends each journey ventured on,
holds steady; offers safe return to known
comforts, quietly spoken familiars,
will-bent reflections of my deeper soul,
though with uninvited guests that lodge their lairs
in the void of that roof, that I leave free
for them to share; that which I do not need.
Copyright © 2012 Colin Whyles