The White House
Fall is sky
of milk and water, of
sand and blood, a field of ev'ry fruit
and folly, gathered around the slant white house that
rocked its boards like a boat and took in
the moon's footloose orphans.
The white house
grew a child;
it seemed safe there by the
warm muddy lake,rough beach of red dirt,
trees bent over brown water by the weight of locusts'
spell chanting out the night, the old gods'
didgeridoo. There were
in the yard,
toys on the floor, music
in the hall, food in the kitchen, bells
of laughter rung on blue sheets, your bright virgin eyes
umber as winter oak, wild as wine,
alight in the white house.
Now the child
is grown, you
are gone, and nothing is
safe. The white house, drifting in its trees
by the clouded lake, is a slow rocking boat un-
manned but full; October's hand turns wind
to firelight for moon's
Process Note: This poem is written in the triquain form, consisting of seven line stanzas with lines of 3,6,9,12,9,6,and 3 syllables respectively.
Images: Old house, author unknown, via Sunday Muse Fair Use
Autumn Day circa 1986, © joyannjones