Our House

Ramblings that will not be revisited or revised. I’m learning the harm of living too much in the present and trying something else.

Our House

Is an old yellow Saltbox in Maine
Whose grass we let grow wild in the spring
And whose thick wet blades cool our ankles in late July.
The floorboards creak when you stagger into the kitchen
To pour yourself some coffee while I finish my breakfast 
At the dining table
Whose brown stain is worn
But once matched that of the Windsor chairs
And floor boards
And window panes.
I’ve been awake for hours while you start your day
But we drink our coffee in front of the same bouquet.

In the Winter
Water stains all of our boots.
They live somewhere between the door
And the fire
Ragged towels lining the path
Where maybe rugs should be.
The back door always smells like snow.
And if you get too close
You’ll shiver and your nose will turn bright red from the cold.

In the Spring 
I’ll stare at the flowers
As they force their first stalks out of the hard ground.
You’ll be convinced that gone are the days
Of warming up your car
Until one morning in April
You’ll find yourself cursing,
Wiping the windshield with your flannel sleeves.

In the Summer 
the windows stay open
And we argue about how to share the same bed every night.
The music of birds fill the corners of the house in the morning
While the grasshoppers break through the sound
Of your cymbals in the garage at night.
On the hottest of days
When we’re both in cropped tanks
And wondering how we’ll survive
We let the smell of polyurethane drift into the house
We used to finish your latest Goodwill find.

In the Fall
We can’t decide
Whether to embrace on the couch
Or under blankets on the porch. 
We find every moment to throw our bodies
Into the sun
Betting on whether our skin will be
Burned by rays or wind.
I let every last tomato hang from branches
Already dead from blight.
Holding onto hope that if they hang on
Just a little bit longer
their embrace of summers last sun will help them turn ripe.