maybe it’s just ghosts
stirring in the past
blown open like sails,
or an anchor clanking
hoisted onboard
like skeletons & bones
clonking a hollow tone

it reminds me of a treasure beneath the sea

a blustery day
entangled in wind chimes
the jangle adds a charm to the grey sky,
the house itself creaks & whistles
like a wooden ship rocking to life

I took the whole place apart,
piece by piece
I put her back together

I scraped years and years of paint
always working on windows
& doors
it makes me wonder about vision,
and passage,
and stepping thru
seeing

my hands rough & beaten &
callused with so many blisters
accustomed to cuts &
scrapes
I wear this body
like a glove
like a cloak
for my soul
to travel & work

I fell into this craft
this vehicle
this wooden ship
I landed
in this house

There is a widow’s walk atop the attic.
Its namesake comes from the women who
lost their husbands out to sea,
but still had a glimmer of hope
they might return one day

I go up there to watch the trees
to get a moment of solace
to fall headlong in the sky

before climbing back down to labor
to treat the house like my own
to imbue her with character
I sand
the grain & stain
the wood
pops
like an old record
singing blues

It makes me think about lineage & history

I must have been a sailor in a past life
star-gazing on clear nights
drunk on swill & sea air
floating casually
thru storm & days of calm