Old House
By Susan Mardele
Painting by Karren Case for Art Meets Poetry 2023
The house was past the end of the road
on a dirt path beyond a small pond.
Gnarled trees reached branches
over the mirrored surface as if preening.
It was quiet out there, highway noise
far off in the distance.
The place was empty, falling down,
all gray weathered wood and echoing memories.
I wondered who had lived there,
what love, what angry words
still vibrated in the collapsing timbers.
I walked back there many mornings, enjoying the peace.
When my marriage was ending,
the house became a metaphor for my life.
A ruin of a place where a family had once been.
Like my marriage, it seemed to break down more every week,
sinking unrelentingly into the Texas black clay.
I eventually moved away
and no longer walked out to the ruined house.
The last time I was there, it had completely collapsed.
But I have not.
I live in my own home now that stands solid.
It’s a place where peace reigns
and joy and comfort are my daily bread.
And the sad ghosts of the past?
They still echo far away in that old ruined house.
Sinking ever deeper into the Texas clay.