In my mind, there’s a place lit by a marmalade moon.
There are porch steps lined by planting pots
and a front door worn
from all the rapping—
taps from friends and family
with dishes clasped in one arm
and children in the other.
The mudroom here
has five brass hooks to hang
heavy coats, knit hats, and scarves.
And beneath the hooks sits
a glazed oak bench where
friends and family will disregard
their winterwear.
In this place, a staircase
creaks beneath sock-clad feet
in the morning.
And the two rooms
right at the top of the landing
are painted to suit
a new age each year.
The king bed down the hall
is dolloped by marmalade in the night.
And there’s a feathered duvet
to warm our two frames,
and there’s light,
and there’s bread,
and there’s life.
pm poetry 