Poem: Old Post Farm Millbrook | Poetry | Hudson Valley | Chronogram Magazine

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Poem: Old Post Farm Millbrook


In this home
Not a lithograph hung properly.
Not an acrylic painting straight.
Every photograph,
every water color askew.
In this house not a teapoy clear of memory, not a trestle unoccupied by books.
Every measure of wall a story, every story a measure of life.
"A Treasury of Gilbert & Sullivan
Words and the Music
One Hundred and Two Songs
Eleven Operettas 1941" open on the library floor.
The key board and guitar humming a quiet static from a warm speaker.
"Aposiopesis" a thickly brushed wet canvas leans against the basement wall drying.
"Palimpsest" a newly penned collection of poetry sits completed on the desk.
Alexandra is sleeping with the Berbers tonight beneath the Moroccan stars.
Her images print up the endless azure of the Saharan sky.
Her eyes, iridian pools of blue, look out at me from the screen of the computer
she left behind.
Her honeyed locks wrapped
tightly, hidden within the scarf she took from home.
The dogs are curled aside the kitchen stove. Noses tucked beneath tails.
The parrot blessedly nods quietly on his perch stirred only to fluff and preen his feathers.
The horses are grazing, meandering in the half light of evening.
The lowing of Angus in the fields across the road carry up to the open windows.
The wood shutters knock in whispers with the breeze.
When my daughter tires of the white waters in Croatia and the Aurora Borealis in
Hammerfest. When she has seen her fill of the cathedrals and domes, the crypts
and sewers of Europe. When India and Japan no longer call her to keep moving.
This home on the hill in Dutchess County waits.

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