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