Cliff Ave

Home Fire

by Linda Parsons Marion

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.

9 thoughts on “Cliff Ave

  1. 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.

  2. 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.

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