The floorboards creak
to life and
sing songs of the past.
Being choked by avocado
berber carpeting.
Your little excited feet
sliding across them
on Christmas morning.
Coffee and newspapers around
the breakfast table.
Families growing.
Leaving.
Returning.
Dying.
And the floor sags
from the weight
of these stories,
from the weight
of time.
3 comments:
My floors are obnoxiously loud. I don't like the title, but I couldn't think of anything else.
Every time I read your poetry Chris, I feel like I'm reading a modern day Frost poem. There's an ease in the language you use and in the manner it is written. I really like this poem the whole way through with the description in the first stanza to the parallelism of the second to the heft of the third. Well done.
I think we should start categorizing some of the poems as Memory...
That final stanza is golden, not to take anything away from all that comes before. You've managed to turn an obnoxious muse into something beautiful and full of life.
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