We interrupt this blog for a bit of poetry

The bones of my house

 

Some would say a certain

room, a kitchen’s native slate or

the way a dark curtain

frames a sunlit nook,

where easy hours have been lost

inside a well-worn book—

these would be the choices

made when asked to choose the part loved

most. But I hear low voices

call, reminding me of

days in Fall, when it was just they

and I and sky above.

The roof still lay piled,

doors and windows were in the wings

as I became dialed

in on headers and beams,

joists and posts as they rose to the

rafters, raised up in teams.

It is a fitting word,

framing, for it implies a line

where art and work are blurred

as every new stick

creates another bordered scene

to be lost to the quick

march of time. So it’s this,

when asked what aspect of my house

provides me the most bliss,

I choose above the rest—

the bones of my house, unseen by

most, that’s what I love best
 
Richard Popovic
       

    

    
    
    


    

        

    
            

        
                
        
            
            

                
Bones
            
    
        
    



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