The Manse on the Hill (Weeping for Home)
The Manse stands on the edge of a cliff
compiled of knob & tube that is
hidden behind plaster & lathe.
Despair shifts like the tide,
& I am pulled down
once again by an undertow
of history.
The carnelian walls bleed
into the butler’s pantry that once teemed
with potential & silly dance intermissions
on the days I used to knead
bread & confide in a ghost
about an Edelweiss brooch
& a bread bag strap.
Sage smoke rises in the moonlight.
The hardwood floors
that supported my weight,
still preserve my trauma
in its layers of varnish.
100 years of living abscond
into wrought iron sconces.
Prayers tucked away in the folds
of discarded brocade & old lace.
Outside in the distance,
an apple orchard,
a stone wall,
& a drunk porcupine
stand as personal landmarks.
In the distance, the crows
always fly north.
Hovering like an afterthought
above the granite well
& french drains in the basement,
I am possessed by its surface beauty:
The crown molding,
the granite countertops,
the Drexler dresser repurposed
into a kitchen island,
the “war room” library,
& the Norwegian wood stove
coddling me with warmth...
& us
& us
& us...Enfolded
in the velvet upholstery.
The tears have stopped, but the heart
still weeps for the “good bones"
of a house
that is no longer mine.
🖤Please keep in mind that I get commissions for purchases
made through links in this post. 🖤