The Rented House

Sits at the base

of the hill's swell.

Above the house,

the wooden church

raises its steeple

like a mast.

I am the audience

for haunting duets

performed by

carillon and gulls.

On windy days

the little house creaks,

a trawler facing west,

but anchored by domesticity.

I make pies from rhubarb

planted by the long-ago

first owner.

I sweep dead flies

from windowsills

and open windows

to the north wind.

I'm floating somewhere

between the choppy waters

of my past

and the shimmering lake

of my future.

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