I dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls,
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.
O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse
My aunt died the last week of November. What stands out, of course is that the holiday season began somewhere near that week?—?perhaps the next.... Continue
BY ROBERT CORDING
Year after year after year
I have come to love slowly
how old houses hold themselves—
before November’s drizzled rain
or the refreshing light of June—
as if they have all come to agree
that, in time, the days are no longer
a matter of suffering or rejoicing.
I have come to love
how they take...
By Jai Rho
Somebody must have known the way I feel right now