The Talking House

Lights off, starlight the only glow,
empty plate sitting on the table.
Outside, the only sound comes
from snow falling and
raccoons stealing from cats.

Inside is much different,
the house trying to tell a story.
From the bathroom,
a swishing sound, the toilet
letting me know of its woes.

A sound barges out of the kitchen,
the fridge emitting a bass whoosh,
alerting me of it's hard work,
keeping beer and chicken cold.

Seeping from the floorboards,
creaking and moaning,
the hot air tells me
of its dedication
in keeping the cold outside.

A slithering falls from the ceiling,
the language of the roof
drips in a whisper down to the bed,
speaking quietly of the arduous task,
keeping snow suspended off the ground.

All parts of the house,
speaking in different languages,
forming a symphony,
only as loud as we allow it to be.