In my red house,
With the white shutters
and cracking roofs;
With flowered mugs
and feathered chairs;
Is a love.

It found its way in
and can be found:
lazy and profound.

Separated by roads and streets,
commercial complexes and
plastered retreats.
Separated and bridged.

And the painted brick walls
heard laughter.
It swept and flowed,
’came pinned: to plates,
to couches
and entertainment systems.
It pressed open doors,
peeked in and said hello.

And yet I am not so dependent,
And the master is away,
“Do you know when he’ll be returning?”
“Three weeks to the day.”

It was found that we were both lucky
- the thought was stolen and proclaimed.
I, in return, “have not known such gentle intimacy.”
And you – “I cannot imagine so!”

Tucked away in crisp and white
Formulated plans for swimming at night.
“How cold it will be,” I was reminded
And laughed.
“I care not for such matters.”

And later I returned
To a previous setting
Of maternal oversight and worry,
Of kindred jesting and folly.
And, oh, I have known this for so long,
It is not mine, no, not anymore.
“You may return anytime.”
But no, it is not mine.

Collected. All I have collected
is not of importance.
What is? I am collected.

In my red house,
with the wooden kitchen
and exposed walls.
With men and of men,
With visitors and residents,
Is a life.



Joined January 2008

  • Artist

Artist's Description

I wrote this poem about being 18, moving out of home, beginning a new relationship and the gentle nature of new love.

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