The house is speaking tonight,
commentary, with clicks and sighs.
Its mouthpiece a north wind,
moaning, as the zephyr whistles.
Then, gathering itself up
to move, with the darkness.
Somnolent solitary shifting,
as if, the night hides secrets.
Does it hide truths of the past,
a desolate sentinel of time.
Lives lived, lives lost, composted,
can its timbers remember, and speak.
A whispered reciting of life’s passage,
I do not understand its language.
An ancient part of me hears, feels, and
knows, this house dwells in all of us.
©2014, Donald Harbour