This was a poem I originally wrote during my brief time in graduate school for creative writing, where I was prompted to walk around my home and write a poem based on the senses. To this day, it is one of my favorite poems, as it reminds me about everything good that home had to offer.
For me, it invokes feelings of nostalgia. What does it evoke for you?
– Brooke
Symbiosis.
My bare feet shuffle across stained wood floors as chills from below creep through slivers and creak at every step.
Goosebumps travel in flocks up my legs and settle with a shiver that slows my pace
Aged oak beckons off-kilter pocket doors to sing a choir of chapters once shut
Frankincense wafts into the still air
Threatening the tinge of stale cigarette smoke clung to old coats-
A reminder of an addiction that begged my chilly feet outside
Open to the harshness of winter
a frigid draft dares to intrude past single-paned glass:
Frosted and equally thawed with the presence of life inside
The smoke carries its way through typewriter keys that beg for warm fingers
Into a yellow light that illuminates the soft plantlife extending towards the dying sun
Life whispers its wisdom next to The Times and intrigues Descartes, Camus, and Capote to join the conversation.
Making for a cacophonous string of pages binding on crowded bookshelves, they beg to remind those who graze upon their spines that there is value in the flesh of dusty pages.
Cameras sit dormant on surfaces, resting from the years spent gazing
They are now silent observers
The glow through my windows dies down and I am found once again sheltered by plush cotton blankets and candlelight
Two felines brush against corners of metal coffee table legs, echoing small chimes of the rustling bells around their soft coat
White noise and the lull of piano music dance through rooms, echoing off high ceilings and stained tiles, covering the bellow of my neighbor’s speakers like a band-aid mends a broken heart
Kahlo converses with drawings of an amateur hung level into unsteady plaster
they speak of how emotion holds this home captive
They exist as passive neighbors, appreciated by the face value I assign
Flickering light reflects off picture frames and collections of milk glass
And as I blow out the flames and sink into slumber,
I am reminded that without a heartbeat operating inside,
Working to maintain refuge,
There is no intention.
There is no one to appreciate the art acquired,
Or be a critic of my own.
Heat pushing through intricate cast-iron vents rocks me to sleep
Right before I fall, I whisper to the cracked paint on the walls:
There is hope and a haven to exist
When I rise once more
For this sanctuary will nourish my soul
And I will live within