Carole Johnston


packing up
the old house
boxes scattered
pear blossoms
on the wind

The house sighs. With every bit of shine I apply it replies by sifting clouds of dust into every corner. Yet, I will miss the dust. On our last day, I wake to soft light and groaning floor boards, walking empty halls barefoot in dusk of morning. Light spirals wind into the eaves. The house murmurs.

the old house
rocks us like our mother
we are cradled
in the creaking walls
sad lullaby of loss

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