In This House

I want to dwell in this house where the walls are awash in memories
here, where lively conversations occur as red wine flows free
and the french music always plays to remember our Paris days
while the scent of savory dishes cooking floats through the air

I want to feel this house where my warm feet kiss cool tile good morning,
and hot foggy showers ease my stiff bones, caressing my skin
And bask in the energy we create making love in dawn’s wake
And take comfort in sounds in the night this old house makes


I want to live my days in this garden, to weed out doubts and fears
nurturing fresh sprouts, tender shoots of green innocence
I want to dig deep into rich earth, planting myself here,
and let my feet grow roots deeper than the sprawling Mesquite


I want to bury my nose in the fragrant petals of the roses
and prick my gnarled fingers with their sharp thorns,
I want to bleed my soul into the fertile loam,
and water fresh blooms with grateful tears I mourn


I want to die in this house with the garden where our hearts live,
in this place we’ve spent so many years laughing, forgiving, loving
fighting, hugging, dreaming, crying and someday–
years from now, we’ll close our eyes and die in each other’s arms
ensconced in our forever home where in this garden our souls will roam

©2019 Linda Lee Lyberg

Poets United Poetry Pantry

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32 Comments on “In This House

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