The Old House
for Katie
In my house
my other house
the one I don’t live in anymore
the light is coming in through the leaded
glass and pooling on the broad pine boards my
wife and I uncovered and stained and polished.
The rippled waving century-old plate glass in
the front picture window is still looking out on
the wooden porch I used to sit on, reading.
The rooms where my children slept, or were
kept awake by fears and old-house creaks are there.
The room where they were conceived, where they
were comforted, where we looked out over the
trees we planted, is still there. The animals that died
and were buried in the back yard are still there—
a guinea pig, two cats, a mouse.
A spirit still roams there.
And in February, the angle of the morning light will
be perfectly aligned to catch the beveled glass
so that it becomes a prism, sending little rainbows all
over the front room that
is still there.
0
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