The Bones Sing

The sound you hear
is my hammer, pulling off
loose woodwork,
hammering in the odd nails
that seem sometimes to rise from the dead
on the ancient ash floors.

It is a gloriously imperfect place I live,
old, nearly abandoned more than once,
at least once broken up
and modified almost beyond recognition.

But underneath, the bones were good,
All all I had to do was stand apart
and listen to the story of those bones,
to wait, to let the bones sing to me,
not a dirge, but a defiant anthem

that reminded me of myself,
never a picture postcard, always a project,
not a thing to be owned,
but to be lived with, to heal with,
to sing with as each nail
is beaten into place,
a soulful rhythm,
dignified, daring,
death defying
with each pound of the hammer

About this poem

I love old houses. I love old people. I love the journey, even when it sucks sometimes. I believe we are more than we see. And certainly more than we let others see.

The picture was taken in Botetourt county, Va.

Tom