House of My Heart
As I ‘cleaned house’ metaphorically, I discovered that my heart was made the way it was by all the experiences I’d had. Some good. Some terrible. Sting calls it ‘…the shape of my heart…’ but to me it’s a house.
The House of My Heart
High on a hill,
in a bright, quiet place
is the house of my heart
-it’s my own private space.
Surrounded by fields
full of old gnarled trees
full of soft-singing birds
and loud-buzzing bees.
The swing on the porch
sways slow in the sun,
overlooking the yard
where a child has run.
Door standing open,
hall full of light
from the skylight above,
full of stars in the night.
Walls lined with faces
of friends here and gone.
Rooms full of memories
and pictures they’ve drawn.
A staircase that’s battered
from many a fall
leads to the upstairs
and another long hall.
Here are the pictures
of those I call dear
some faded and blurry
others razor-sharp clear.
Bedrooms o’erflowing
with passions and dreams
have echoed to promises
tears, shouts, and screams.
Higher up in the attic
too cluttered to tell
are the things that I hide,
-it’s my own private hell.
And lastly the roof
nestled high in a cloud
it’s where I go
when the world gets too loud.
So remember this address
wherever you roam
the place where my soul lives
you can always call home.
MDW – To all of my friends, wherever you are.
9/97
