Our House

Everyone I know is uncomfortable.
Everyone wants a different house,
something with glass walls
where they can be seen in happiness.
But farther from people.
Hell is other people.
A quiet house is needed, in the trees,
with clean lines and good bones.
High ceilings to let it breathe deep.
A stone foundation, a garden for butterflies.
A warm kitchen for late night suffering.
Quiet neighbors, preferably dead,
barely whispering if they must.
A kettle on the stove to exhale memories;
A kettle that won’t forget I was here.

J. Kyle Kimberlin
Creative Commons Licensed

4 thoughts on “Our House

  1. That poem, my friend, is (your choice of adjective) great, wonderful, superb. At times like these, words fail.


  2. “Quiet neighbors, preferably dead” reminds me of someone I know whose front windows look across the street to the cemetery. She loves it because it’s quiet and pretty.

    House with glass walls in the trees with a butterfly garden sounds even better.

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