This Old House 

by Lorine Cahill

This old house holds meTold me one life is much like anotherMine, too, is such a life, hardly more than ordinarySeen from afar, just a lifeMine was there for the taking so I took itAnd spent itThe old slate roof hold steadfastAgainst the outside onslaughtFalling branches, leaves, summer heatThe stinging cold allows off and on snowsMelt and freeze melt and freezeDripping sheets of glass grow into iciclesShimmering at the edge of slateThe walls of this old house wrap around meWalk me into my bed, into comfort,Under its covers hide secrets, excitement, tenderness,Warm skin, the white lies of lovers.How many nights, how many nights!It’s pillows heard sobs,Hid pools of tearsThat’s the way with pillowsThe comfort our heads till we sinkSwallowed by the reprieve of sleepWake to another day of rugsWitnessing one step in front of anotherRugs are there to be walked onThey grind disappointment into dustDay after dayOld couches need scrubbedClock setChildren raised, parents buriedQuickly we slip through year after yearAnd just as the old house tells meAll of this passion, anguish, scheming,Intensity of love and failure,Days bursting with ecstasyYearning, turmoil, desperationAll of this, in the greater scheme of thingsAmounts to nothing moreThan just an ordinary life.

Copy-rite 2018 Lorine Cahill 

Published on: Jun 11, 2018 @ 15:34

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