The old stone house seems gathered from the ground
as much as it was fitted by hand,
standing there in its clearing, half alive.
It has roots. Foundations. Its rough field stones,
greened and greyed and browned
through the natural cure of the good earth
and worn smooth by its wind and rain,
lends something of a gift of the land
claimed in the wild dreams
of these settlers and homesteaders.
If you look into the hand hewn windows,
you will see their ingenious spinning wheels,
looms, clocks, guns, candles and cradles,
the altar of a fireplace where they gathered
around kindling and old, iron pots
steaming with fresh herbs and venison.
You can almost see them in their hand made chairs
arranged around the plain slab of a table,
saying their prayers. You can almost hear their voices
talking of weather, chores, sick relatives.
A day spent scrambling after a six point buck
or a turkey glimpsed somewhere up in the bracken.
Bible verses read by the children.
These rooms are empty now, those people
long gone to the stones inscribed with their names
out back. But this house and its ghosts
seem imbedded in us, a cornerstone,
a monument of our ancestors, their perseverence,
and the faith that carried them across oceans and wilderness.
In this world ever widening around us
that seems to have no discernable end,
it's good to know where we came from.
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Author Notes
This is a poem celebrating the faith, the courage, and the perseverance of the settlers who came across the Atlantic to begin building this country. I love history, I have been to many places like Old Bethpage Village on Long Island, and Edenton and Bath, Wilmington here in NC, and always found them fascinating, the old rooms haunted by the spirits who worked so hard to make a better life in a new world. I wanted to bring those spirits to life in the poem. estory
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