This house
well made
wood, brick
foundation
strong laid
has sheltered many hearts
baby tumbles, stairstep mumbles
tantrums, and nail bitings, time outs and
lights out, and sleep terrors, and math errors
broken windows, rodent overthrows, bat wings
lost wedding rings, dance steps, sprained necks this
house is the falling down place, the get- back -up and try- again space
the grounding ground, morning sing and night time party sung,
music filled with old and young, and books and games and
wood block trains, this house with its scratches, its cracks
its ants, its drafts, where children ran through
some made by me and you, where they wrote on walls
padded down halls, left messes in rooms, slammed doors,
left too soon, where we sit in our chairs in the morning
and read by a fire when it’s cold, where windows kiss
spring , blow in pollen and mold and we peer over glasses
drink our coffee and wine, and smile when there’s not much
to say at the time. This house is a harbor, a haven, a home
a soft place to land in all weathers, a poem.
Early Morning Poems 