Quaint. Quiet. The modest porch opens arms to greet us,
While sticky locks, trickster tumblers angle to
Shy carpet reaches tenderly to toes hiding in shoes, socks;
Pale, cool wood lies compliantly, utters
Almost silently, “I lift you up.” Stark white wall--
Strangled by lurid, flowery borders, gasping
To tear it off, pull it away-- demands vibrant music and to flood itself
With passion and color and brightness.
Stairs ascend swiftly to just below the roof,
Unclear where wall begins, ceiling ends but
Either way embraces us, suggests we shift our
Gaze to the rising moon.
Cold concrete staunch below dreams
Of color and light.
Whimsy waves, ‘Hello!,’ expectant from each corner.
Outside a garden, impatient to be planted, offers preemptive acceptance, willing soil.
A proud porch light invites us back in, suggests that the stairs, ceilings
Carpet, wood need assurance: we will
Shadows of the sunset passing
Wink through the picture window, who shed her opacity that
One day we might find ourself lovers under such a brilliant display.
(comment on this poem)