The old gray house beckoned, waiting
'til
the pipes stopped knocking, watching
the
porch that lay shadowed, accepting
the
rounded mounds, evenly topping
each
waning, old weathered board.
Wet
flocking bent branches low, filling
cracks
and corners above the sill, spattering
the
panes of pearl light, patterned
on
the ground 'neath Scotch pines, guarding
a
house now resplendent in the night, beaming
a
silent reflection of white.
Pam Miller
