This is Maine

Our House

I remember how we came

with the excitement of explorers,

the wild high pitch of our elation

echoing through each empty room.

There were spaces we could fill:

the root cellar, the attic’s secret passage,

the upstairs closets,

narrow and useless as they were.

It has no secrets left to yield, this house

we once inhabited. Now abandoned,

chilled walls cracked,

penetrated by silent frost.

Outside, blank windowpanes reflect

the sky’s striations.

The frozen fingers of the lilacs reach,

expecting nothing.




Carla Ganiel