This House Says

Its walls hum
where the wind shines
through. Its roof taps out
small circled sounds. Where my feet
press the wood, the floor
moans out arguments and laughter.
In its rooms
my gray haired, blue eyed family
with their disappearing
or brown red dotted lips.
Lips that pluck out things to say.
They have spoken
this house into ruin, spoken it into
a cradle of slow talk. Their voices
brash and cackling, soft with cadence.
Cadence which soaks the walls with
their unhurried language of common things:
movement of neighbors, inconsistencies
and politics, details of soft
moans in the night, disruptions, anger,
forgiveness and desire.
It is the noises which do not change.

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