A poem is the old house
on your street,
front door unlocked,
dark until you enter.
Let your eyes adjust,
pull aside the curtains
and leave open the door.
The poet knows how darkness obscures, and darkness magnifies.
You might find this room cozy
or cavernous and cold.
You’ll move room to room.
Some rooms enlighten or confuse;
this house holds artifacts of another life.
An old piano fills one lilac-scented room;
on the worn plank floor, sheets of ragtime and Bach
waiting for you.
After an unsettling turn, you’ll find a grand room,
one staircase candlelit, the other dark.
Explore them now, or return
with a friend.
When you are ready,
the door’s unlocked.
The poet built the house;
you bring light.
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A Poem is the Old House
