this new burrow is surprise laden -

discoveries by the hour.

the floor creaks here especially

and look at this very small key

left in the back corner of a closet.

we are unfurling each other,

this old house and i.

today i noticed

the sun reaches the bony winter lilac by mid afternoon

before ducking behind the neighbors barn,

glowing it's strong ridgeline an even hotter red.

we are humbly unpacking our hearts into this place,

invigorated and undone.

i find my grandmother's script in front pages of my books

and turn to a dangling tremble -

we pull gut memories from cardboard boxes

hoping we are enough,

unpacking casually as if everything were new or normal

but we know it's not, we know everything is old

and goes backward as much as forth.

i wish i had portraits to hang

of every person who has called this home

since some wide hands in 1850 visioned and made it,

or a long lilt of voices recorded

each of them stating their name and something that

they ever so love.

now

checking in one last time on the night,

standing with the dogs on our 3 foot pack of snow

in -5 degree crisp and under such startling whirl of starfire

serenaded by a yip howl chorus of coyotes,

i imagine what plants will find us

bursting from every nook around the house

when the snow pack finally melts,

floods the basement and moves on,

bright coded messages sent

from decades hence.