Old House

by Joseph J. Biernacki

A singular place of identity. A somewhere that repeatedly appears in a dream or is mentioned by those closest to your thoughts. Where might that be?

We ventured in where spiders lived.

Greeted by silk on the head,

The space was cold and smelled of mold,

We searched to be free of the thread.

Old squeaky floors were scratched and scarred,

From spills and sun, and sole and soot.

The air was thick with light and dust,

Echoes of laughter, dance and foot.

Tall walls were cracked and ceilings sagged

With plaster and paper and paint,

Selections made by many a

Maid, that once were possibly quaint.

Grand vacant rooms proved full no less,

With shadows of children at play,

A stillness like answers to prayer,

And Spirit that beckoned us, “stay.”

(December 2024)