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.