The house sounds good.
It moans with the tide of the wind,
not a hushing sound, not soothing, more
of a rush, a remembrance.
Lying beneath the metal roof of the back room, I listen to tilting timbers,
the old croaks of days long past, of weather and wear,
and the walls whisper--remember too much,
and you'll become lost in this place.
No gust of wind is the same--
make the voices new--
make the meaning new.