Home Fire
Whether on the boulevard or gravel backroad,
I do not easily raise my hand to those who toss
up theirs in anonymous hello, merely to say
“I’m passing this way.” Once out of shyness, now
reluctance to tip my hand, I admire the shrubbery
instead. I’ve learned where the lines are drawn
and keep the privet well trimmed. I left one house
with toys on the floor for another with quiet rugs
and a bed where the moon comes in. I’ve thrown
myself at men in black turtlenecks only to find
that home is best after all. Home where I sit
in the glider, knowing it needs oil, like my own
rusty joints. Where I coax blackberry to dogwood
and winter to harvest, where my table is clothed
in light. Home where I walk out on the thin page
of night, without waving or giving myself away,
and return with my words burning like fire in the grate.
What’s funny is that when I first looked at the picture, I was like what’s so special about this house?? Hilarious… then, I looked up and my mouth just dropped open. Man, what do you even say to that, hence just posting the picture, right? Wow.
Very moving words to accompany this shot. Wish I knew more about the house, but sometimes mystery is better.
interesting composition here..like the top of the photo..
Hello William Egglestone ! What a great work you have here!! i’ll be back!
Nice house, beautiful place..
Michael
I like the framing and the colors very much
Paul is right I think it does remind me a bit of Eggleston – especially the colors. The contrast between the lowly house and the rock of ages in its backyard is thought provoking. And then there is the wonderful everyday aspect of the house – Anyway great shot.
i guess it was built in a nice place, i hope no rock falls from that mount!!
Now that makes for an unusual backyard…