The House at Christmas
Its wide dark eyes–
the picture windows of a 60s bungalow –
reflect rooms in black lakes
cold and mirrored as though slick
with tears and ice.
Early, before the day dies,
stark skies will light them,
black trees against the yellows
and a fierce fire sunken
beyond the mountains.
Inside
lamps blind and still the fear.
This is a house full of secrets and surprises.
One year my father rises in the dawn to assemble
a green wrought-iron swing
he somehow dug into frozen ground
so that we’d find it in the …
