HOUSE OF LOVE

Tanned evening shadows drowse

against old brick walls, listening to

the husky creak of beams and rafters

exchange nuances, the billets-doux

of another feather-soft day.

Fronds of willows, closing lids of leaves

swoon and bend close, catching sense

of love’s preamble as it drifts through

open casements and comfy, settled cracks.

Downstairs she chops fresh fruit into bowls,

counts seeds of their offspring – one, two,

three, four, five…

Upstairs he shaves, his mirror steamed –

cloudy as pillows he nightly plumps to

fan long tendrils of her hair upon. 

Thoughts dropped lightly through his

water-streaked glass are sent rippling

through the unseen depths of her

dusky, dewpond soul.

Close by, beneath mossy, dripping overhangs,

an old bullfrog, erect on his wet-stone podium,

puffs his throat and sings Nella Fantasia

before arcing into somnambulant pools

where swish of golden koi is all the

riches this house requires.

All is stilled, swaddled in

an abiding presence,

an eternal moment,

a continuous present:

a place known as Home.