Layered in darkness,
Quilted in authentic falsehoods,
The house waits for us
To stand, hands folded,
Blink and coo,
Gaze without touching,
Grazing a palimpsest of lives
We are only the latest
In a long line of poets
And doters to pay court,
Breathe against the glass,
Glance at the stolid heart
From which so many images fly.
Stuffed with sweetened
Morsels of truth,
We dawdle, sated
To the daffodilled wayside,
Set our sights high,
Over layered landscape
And wind back,
Dazzled by speed,
Leaving the dark house
To its centuries.
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