leaves are rusting
cars are rusting
I wake up in the mornings
cursing the frost
and missing the warmth of Dixie
I hate the cold
I say
my wife and I have bought
another house to restore
that’s what we do
we buy these old wrecks
and bring them back to life
just before they crumble
into the abyss
I pry away boards and nails
lives and time
saws whir like
the honey bees that
have taken up residence
in the attic
wallpaper is removed
like an archeological dig
each layer
reveals a history of lives
births and deaths
marriages
divorce
I have several
bad words for the husband
whose wiring
looks more like spaghetti
than a power supply
Betsy paints and varnishes
I compliment her skills
with Sheetrock mud
she plops a huge wad of joint
compound on a wall
and teases it with a wide trowel
magically
a new wall appears
from a cloud of dust
I tear apart an old cupboard
and a photograph flutters to the floor
I pick it up
brush off ancient dirt
it’s a portrait of a woman
from the 40’s
Faith
Faith died here
at 88
an avid musician
a teacher for 40 years
down at the farm stand
Janet tells me how wonderful
Faith was
we were great friends
I miss her every day
Janet’s fingers caress
a bunch of cilantro
like a woman’s hair
Faith
her name has become
a metaphor for our lives
it takes a lot of faith
to rebuild an old house
every act is heroic
visionary
I study a massive hemlock beam
6” x 8” at its base
it ascends 12 feet above
to support one of the cross members
after 60 years
the beam has twisted like
bittersweet entwining
an oak
that’s what time does
it settles
it shifts
it twists and bends
sags and warps
I see it everywhere
It’s Faith’s ghosts
I dismantle
to birth our home
will we ever see the end
my wife asks
someday
perhaps
with faith
