The House

a poem of implications

Photo by Nathan Walker on Unsplash

in the cold mist
old forms can change
it is apparent in the cold mist
it is there
the hours hold up their heads
there grinning teeth
set on my shoulder
my feet go forward
and I fall back

the blizzard blows
obscurity
in long slow reaches through the light
streaks and blinds
my owl is on the tree
the window sees and
spins my thread out
each light and dark
makes and puts away

in the old house
halls of must
corridors stretch open through the dust
of the house
the boards know all the
tales and secrets seep
from the walls
my mouth inhales
and dust is on my tongue

from the tall fields whispering
mistily drifting odors
close to the earth
damp and raw
scrabbling roots and twisting burrows
and holes…