these cracks, i run my hand over them ,feeling the rough and rigid ,
the indent of history that made its mark many years ago
as if to retrace the past , quick judgements and assumptions
conceived from the stories that shadows and old notes told
following the trail of perfectly placed boards , toned and retired
yet their strength comes from years of wear and tear , they alone
have seen children grow into adults,cultured nights and gave direction
the creaks speak of the treasures beneath the floor , a history
the selection of steps covered in dark matter given to us by the sun's friend
back when segregation was all the norm, this house stood for more
the battle between the screen door and wind , its old foe
like little kids looking for the ever present reaction
tortured they have battled on occasion , ripped from the hinges
and battered as it lay, wind and rain , soon though realization
and eventually held up and put back together again.
looking for the protection of others the porch was built
droplets of blood and sweat soaked the beams , and supports
into the seams red flowed , old womens dresses
iron nails splintered pine driven deep towards the center
fastened strong , to keep hold of its to foundation, lessons from winter
the menage of thoughts and a purpose united the fore fronts
all the while simple gusts made every attempt to destroy
what they had worked so hard for
the delicate balance was reinforced with a railing painted to match the sky
boards rested in perfect unison, simultaneously sustaining the weight
as others were submitted to the process in all they had the gratification
the house stands there every time the door is opened : exhale when we leave
when we return inhale us and we travel through out its head filling it with
memories

i'll finish this later