The House I Built
In this house I built
A place still standing
Despite its deep inadequacies
I hear the stillness of
10,000 nails, clutching wood
Faithfully holding their assigned angles
Only one or two complaining at midnight.
Redwood boards
Basking in fog and sun
Fog and sun, are hoping
To be released. Straining to return
To the friendly twigs and green
Back to the forest floor.
Once my songs played in this house
They’re embedded in the walls.
This still place where sons rolled on the floor
Where now their own children
Play, and color, cry and sing
Life grinding and growing in this house I built
Today, the growers are elsewhere
On the job or swimming camp, or
The Ladies Social Activities Team
I’m alone with the chickens
To enjoy the unusually thick quiet.
You know it rather than understanding it
You feel it rather than hearing it
Forty something years later,
Sitting in this house I built
Beyond life’s buzzing
I become aboriginal.
These eternal patterns, this stillness
Helps me find my voice again.
NOTE: I don't have a photo of the original house he built, but here's a picture of the view.
What a privilege to be able to be alone in that house again, to have it remain in the family. My father built the house that I grew up in and my sisters and I were all so happy that our brother could take it over and live there, and take care of it, after our father died. Who can understand how much of yourself is, as you write so aptly, still singing in the walls? I like the poem very much.
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