The Home

I am inordinately fond of this poem and all its flaws, just like the houses I built. You can't build a flawless house. I've tried, it's a fool's errand but you do come away with a well built house.

                            The Home

           I stacked blocks and dreamed
                     of building houses.
                   I saw people in there
              under my soaring rooflines
                  and graceful landings.

                Patches of window light
                   danced in my homes,
                      a daylong melody
              from an annual movement,
                    part of a symphony
                    playing for the ages.

            My door jambs marked time
          in heights across generations.
                In greatest anticipation,
                   quietly suppressed,
           a young bride was carried in
                 across my thresholds.
           Later, it was happily tramped
        by teenagers roaring out to play.

                My homes have heard
                   the midnight bicker
                     of young couples
                    intently bargaining.
              Who shall pad my hallway
        and feed that unreasonable baby
            who lays inconsolable in my
            well proportioned bedroom,
                 indifferent to my lovely
                   southeast exposure.

               My homes have told me
                     they love the feel
             of small bare feet slapping
    across their smooth hardwood floors-
                   they love the sound
               of unrestrained laughter
                echoing off their walls,
                   it all tickles equally.

My garages have seen bashed knuckles,
      burnt fingers.  They have flinched
    in anticipation as hammers descend
                 upon the wrong nail.
             My walls have blanched
              from linen to pale ivory
          from the effluent profanity
              hard after these woes.
                      I have wept
          for these do-it-your-selfers
        and their self-inflicted wounds.

        My basements are concrete,
             The sturdiest container 
                    for the teenager.
             It is a launchpad where,
   with their combustible temperament,
                     they must hie
               lest their world weary,
            surly scorn of everything
         scorch the entire household.
               They are in a limbo,
                 a holding pattern,
             awaiting a countdown.
         My walls can take the heat.

                My attics are full-
      a bassinet, a stroller, high chair,
           bunk beds and scooters
                and a tiny tricycle.
        They once held the children,
           now they hold memories
            too precious to discard.

               My houses will bear 
           the bitterest snowstorm,
                   they will hunch
          against the howling gales.
               They will hold fast
            for they are the shelter,
               they are the haven,
               they are the home.

I started this poem exactly five years ago, on December 10th, 2018. I have no idea why I chose to dig it out of my personal archive of hundreds of poems but… today we have a windstorm gusting up to 80 mph, it’s below freezing so the wind chill is down there. This cabin was built to withstand a sustained 4 second blow at 134 mph, just about the best you can have for a frame house. When the wind comes hammering in over the Continental Divide and straight into us here on this ridge at 7,200 elevation, I feel pride and just a tinge of fear. This poem and Looking at Wood I’d like to “hear” at my funeral. The attic part gets me every time.