Maintenance

There is work to do.
Never mind how picturesque the house appears
from the street
with it’s gardens and wicker furniture,
there is work to do,

rot on the windowsills,
a door to fix around back,
a cracked window pane.
It is not that the picture postcard
beauty seen from a distance is a lie,

it is merely incomplete
and you have to come close to see the flaws.
I have to let you in, make you not a guest in the parlor,
but family, trusting
that you will see beyond the brokeness to the beauty

of a life lived with glorious mistakes,
where talking on the porch takes precedence
over better homes and gardens,
and where it is accepted
that the work is always there, and always will be,

that life takes maintenance.
So come in. Feel the breeze that blows through the house.
Talk with me as the sun rises over the quarry.
Never mind the mess.
There is work to do.

But not now.
No, now we we savor each other.
We will laugh, tell stories, cry, love.
for this too is work, soul work
and it protects us as surely as walls and doors,
perhaps even,
more so.

About this poem

I love old houses. I love old things. They are rarely perfect and they take a lot more work to keep up. But their endurance is worth the work.

And so are we.

Tom