top of page


The Manse on the Hill (Weeping for Home)

Me in the "war room" library c. 2016

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. 🖤

bottom of page