Reflective Reverie

Photo: Reflective Reverie


The house on the lake, awake, asleep,

Has legends to tell, and secrets, keep,

Of seasons fled and of lives gone by,

In whispers, hushed, like the distant cry

Of an owl that’s flown on her muffled wing—

The house on the lake holds everything

Behind closed shutters and boarded doors,

As tightly as novels protect their stores

Of stories—the ghosts of bygone make

The pages turn in the house on the lake.

Happily Haunted Houses

graphite drawing

Her Monument

In a strange little homestead lit by electric light

is a passing builder’s fancy floating in the neon night;

the spirit of the artisan flits by, nocturnal blue,

and shoots the moon by swooping through the ashes in the flue;

she drifts in starry glimmerings beyond the crooked room

where comet dust is settling on the folly of her tomb. O,

let lie the tools of wisdom where your little homestead rises,

and cry Hurrah! for moonlit nights

and foolish enterprises.