I'm His House

The hunt has just begun to find our next family house and home. So far, we have seen several places that do not fit us for one reason or another. Last week I posted a prose poem in which I described the house that ken would be if he were a house. He would be an austere, solid, brooding, and industrious house sitting on the banks of the Mississippi—impenetrable. I’m a different sort of house, but we are complimentary. After writing “He is a house,” as an exercise, I wrote a separate prose poem called, “I am a house,” in which I try to describe the sort of house I am.

I am a House (I Have Good Bones)—a prose poem

I have good bones—a house that survives earthquakes, hurricanes, and tornadoes. My bones, hewn of ancient white oak, rescued wood from an old barn in Pennsylvania, stand firmly in tradition with mortis and tenon joinery, despite my modern design.

I am a modestly proportioned open-architecture house with airy rooms and many windows, oriented to the south-west, overlooking the sea, or is it a desert? I have a view far into the distance, and those who are near me can see plainly within, all except the hidden interior rooms, which few people ever gain sight of. I am more than meets the eye.

My furnishings are comfortable, simple; nothing planned or overly decorated. The space—graced with splashes of color, a bright rug thrown here and there over the cool polished mud floor. Inhabitants gather around my hearth, my heart, and in my kitchen on cold nights. In the heat they take comfort in the cool breeze that passes from transom to transom. During more turbulent times, I protect, adjust my inner workings to the unexpected events that come from outside.

Many live here—human, spirit, canine, feline, insect, bird, and rodent. I am nothing without those who dwell within. If I had no life within my walls I would cease to exist, for a house is nothing if nobody inhabits it. In this regard I am high maintenance, requiring constant upkeep, the reassurance of love, of being needed. While my bones are strong, the rest is rather fragile. One thrown stone would shatter my glass walls.