The Innisfree Poetry Journal www.innisfreepoetry.org by Jean Nordhaus
The House
I never notice the façade. All these visits happen at night. Always the same house, mysterious and unpredictable, shabby and rich. I love the interior, so much larger than it looks crammed with books, with teacups and hangings, baskets, figurines, ancient pottery, chessboards and puzzles, with window seats, side pantries, unexplained corridors, a maze of possibility, a labyrinth it’s easy to get lost in. Who lives here, I wonder? Artists probably, and intellectuals, eccentric scientists who lead a more intentional life than I. How many others have wandered these chambers wrapped like me in their own desires? House of dream, house of mystery with its mountains and yeasty cellars, its topsy-turvy stairways and, invariably, an extra room I didn’t know was there. Always, I wake enriched, just as the house dissolves. Then the soul climbs back into its body and goes to work. Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication |