During a visit to Levering Orchard, I spoke with one of the owners about his childhood memories of home, a house that now stands empty and in disrepair, yet a dominate fixture overlooking the orchard. It seemed to speak to me.
Red House Talking
heat scared twisted tin
metal remains of the shelter of generations
once marking the boundary between security
sky and seasons' harsh torments of ice and wind
once shielding mother and child and keeping
home hearth's warmth within
sentinel timbers stand charred
remnants of hard taught lessons
essential knowings of words and deed
those shadows of learning that walk with us
stand undaunted, proclaiming our way
through life's course
holding us to right of way
pane-less windows black and lost
tell of eyes peering outward
watching for familiar faces
tracing memories in winter's vapor
smudged glass and
of curtains drawn tightly muffling
the magic giggles of life long love and randy youth
now the boundaries of roof and wall
yield openly, freeing lives long bound here
as prolific gaps
grasp not even nature's breeze
releasing it to dance delightfully
resting on my mind and dream
before wafting on
leaving a whisper of
a voice talking with
a red accent