An Old House Seen In Passing

An Old House Seen In Passing

The empty house on the hill tips into the chill wind

like a ship crawling port-ward, listing drunkenly

in a vast-sea void of  tangled dry grass and 

dead barbed-wire fences,

The window-frames hollowed and vacant,

even the doors pried from their hinges

in the swirling backwash of drowned years.

In an upstairs room, a cracked mirror

hides unknowable depths, 

blinded by a yellowed sheet.

The boards warp and twist 

as the water bleeds across the sagging ceiling, 

and the doorways hold little

except the cold, and the hours. 

Bourgeoning Summer

All of the doors in the house closed at once, 

a dread chorus of gallows trapdoors banging shut

in the wake of chilled wind

that trailed through the house

like ice particles stirred to lively animation.

The sky wallowed in its sullen, amber pall,

little drifts of gray leaves dancing away up the road,

to where the bridge swayed drunkenly with 

each hollow, booming gust, 

recoiling snake-like from the 

bright purple frost of descending lightning.

This is the kind of rain

that washes seasons away whole, 

shrieking into the maw of raw yesterdays,

all bent backwards into oblivion.

10:37 PM, June 12th

On Burlington summer evenings

the darkness seeps in by degrees,

a silently falling veil

erasing the blue from neighborhood skies

to carve the night black,

the backyard trees bathed in the halogens

of rusted streetlights,

both etched like skeletons in the vast gloom.

This is a dark so deep

that it changes all perception,

doubles and redoubles distances

like a funhouse mirror,

conjuring unimaginable distortions.

Tiny lightning-bug beacons

stitch their invisible thread

between the stalks of stubborn timothy

by the worn back steps,

while the heat drips down from the air

like a wavering ghost of last week's rain.

Fourteen Autumns and Fifteen Winters

When I was a child in the hills of western Massachusetts, I was convinced I loved summer more than any other kid in town. Summer meant watergun fights and late-night soccer matches in the meadow across Granville Road, chasing fireflies through leafy woods in the massive nature sprawl of Stanley Park, and the weekend block parties our neighborhood would throw on a few occasions each season, the thick tang of charcoal grilling and pool chlorine hanging almost solidly in the air. Despite the mosquito bites and the constant shadow realization of school letting in again soon, summer was a clear glass jar of freedom in a shapeless year. 

As I grew, I began to love summer less and less, a boy becoming a man and aging out of feverish childhood passions. Once we moved to the Outer Banks of North Carolina, summer meant endless traffic trapped in sun-sticky, brutally hot cars. It meant the occasional blithe rudeness of the tourists at whatever hellish retail outlet you spent the summer toiling for. I was never a beach kid; a part of me always yearned desperately for those cool Massachusetts summers again, likely more idyllic in my memory than they were in reality. Adulthood tends to mean a great deal of revisionist history where our younger days are concerned. Still, a halcyon glow surrounds the very thought of those summers even now as I approach thirty.

Now my cherished time of the year is fall and winter. Maybe I've just change fundamentally as a person, but as they say, you can always bundle up but you can't take your skin off to escape the heat. Winter and autumn are times to wander the orange, freshly-bare woods at Shallow Ford, to navigate endless fields of dead yellow grass beneath boundless, overcast gray skies, to wrap yourself in a sweater and drink hot chocolate while you string holiday lights on the front porch, your breath fogging in the raw chill as the freights wail through the center of town. I'm not a dark person by nature (despite the themes of much of my art), but I love the mysterious pull the colder months have. Summer is a stagnant fog of haze in comparison, and moving through its syrupy warmth simply feels exhausting. 

Perhaps I'm lucky. I've experienced passionate love for most of the year, but at different perspectives and levels of maturity throughout my life. For now though, I'm very much counting the days until it's time to carve pumpkins and build bonfires and burrow under covers once more. I'm aching for that first hint of frost in the air sometime in late August, that subtle shift of light to a more prosaic yellow that will tell me that my time is on its way to my door again. I'll try to enjoy summer in the meanwhile.

"And then it is raining 'cause Halloween is coming,

so close you can smell it right against your face."

                           -Thanksgiving, "There's No Invisible Halloween Costume That Isn't There"