What the House Kept

They loved my lamp when summer filled the room,

my wit took wing; the rafters sang.

Then frost came, fang-deep, black wire for bloom,

and old nails answered with a clang.

One by one their soft hands left the door.

No thunder. No clean villain to arraign.

Latch clicked once. The hall asked for more.

A cold cup practised being rain.

Bless cold? I almost named my guilt.

I liked the plaster giving way.

It stripped oak from paint, beam from gilt,

and showed the rot I would not say.

Few stood. Fewer. The rafters knew:

a house is judged by what it loses too.

F.S.F