The house, once full, is half stripped bare.
Once laden with photographs, garnished with throw pillows and floral prints, the walls are
again, as they were:
White, the scars of exposed nails as stretch marks of time
Proving that once
these walls knew a season of plenty
The drip of the faucet trickles over dirty plates
carrying remains of summer’s bounty
And laughter, too, trickles over this bare room
Burrowing into places
once covered by candles— by photographs and paintings
Caressing the naked walls as the ocean, in its waves, caresses the sand
Voices layer the room: the sounds and cadences of comfort
these friends, who have come to tidy up our lives
to pack our chaotic disorder into soft brown boxes
To sit with us in mismatched chairs as the sun drops, day weary.
Emptied of its adornments
The room is robust, flushed with joy
While soft brown boxes sit quietly
and become anonymous in bulk and shadow
I wonder again what it is
that really makes a home.