I cannot keep myself from going home and questioning my family's history, even though I know I will find little comfort in my attempt to feel a connection.
When autumn harvests sit
bountiful in country cellars,
a one-lane bend beckons me
to a whittled wood-frame house
where I will waltz with ghosts
beside the brittle chimney ruins
of my hallowed family history.
Beneath grave-silent oaks
I will barter my time for stories,
simple unspoken songs, now
as elusive and feather-faint
as the pale gray memories
that rot ‘ever into worn walls.
Assenting to my defeat,
yet resolute to my timely return,
I will soon seek the quiet solace
of these trees, those ashy ruins,
that house, and those ghosts
that beat in sync to conceal
the secrets of my lineal sphere.