Second night
Second night
in my sister’s house
after the auction–
I woke at two.
I could not see the house–
only smoke, far from done
blacking all things, no blue,
no green, no white colors for
it was December and I had to
turn off the furnace.
I remember the cold most, for
I had to endure it through
March before the furnace
or
the smoke damage too
could be brought about face.
The ducts, and the cold
endured until April
and then rain, rain, again.
11 thoughts on "Second night"
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I’m enjoying your journey with the house. It feels like you are restoring it. Reminds me of a book about Ruth Stone. ” The House is Made of Poetry.”
Coleman, I have not read Ruth Stone’s words. I must. Tired from repairing her house, I will write a few lighter poems.
You move us through the house–and your experiences with it– like a gentle guide.
I’m happy you used the word gentle. Truly I might have turned to triads of cusses…
Completely understandable.
It was so easy to fully picture this house and be really feel like we were in it alongside the speaker!
Katelyn, I hope you will endure a few more reads before I begin to wax poetic.d
I can feel this house through your words
Your sparse lines make the repeated rain a powerful ending–powerful restraint.
Thanks, Linda, to feel a poem is to believe the poet.
Shaun, thanks for understanding that repetition is a powerful poetic tool.