by Michelle King

In my father’s house,
I watched the sun take her course across the sky.
I roamed the woods with her ribboning creek,
And painted footprints on the floor.
My fingerprints frost the front door like a fragile vapor.

I hung melodies on lines beneath the beams.
The window glass wept music.
The black roof sang rain.

In my father’s house,
Words carved figures into silhouettes—
Fresh, gentle first buds,
Crimson summer sun.

I drank books like fine wine.
I poured my thoughts on parchment leaves,
Pure as pomegranates,
Bittersweet as autumn rain.

In my father’s house are many memories.
Is this not so?
I wish you would have told me
Nothing gold can stay.

Michelle King’s home is in the hills of Pennsylvania. She travels the world through literature and a myriad of thoughts.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy

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