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.

Eastern Washington December Morning

Out of the slumber of night, dawn awakens,
light dripping out over white earth.
Tendrils of sun, grasping like the wizened knuckles
of grandmother, reach out across the snow dusted hills.

Frost, claiming the car as its own, dissipates slowly,
forcing a decision on sleep clouded minds;
show up late to work or get up early and scrape the windshield.

Standing at the stove, making breakfast,
warmth from the electric stovetop
clashing with cold window drafts.
Hands warm with cooking,
cheeks cold from staring out the window,
the disparate temperatures oddly comforting.

A magazine, filled with other people’s opinions,
two eggs, a hot cup of coffee and
a dirty tablecloth.
These welcome the new day.

The drive to work,
radio waves echoing inside the car.
The drive, peaceful in the mountains,
frustrating in the town.
Thick fog, a fluffy white cape,
dresses up the cascades.

The car pulls into the parking lot,
two minutes after eight,
the three usual suspects smoking their morning cigarette,
the smoke indistinguishable from frosty breath.

I walk inside, the day begins.


As the sun began to peel over the snow-capped hills, the morning air bites through the cracks and holes in the trailer. The dual combo attack of cold and sun finally reaches through the fog of sleep and drags us, somewhat unwillingly, into the conscious world. A steamy shower and a hot cup of coffee push back the tendrils of frost, warming our fingers and face for the coming day.