My poor guitar’s in need of strumming.
My morning poem’s not forthcoming.
Seems a house weighs on my brain.
Some might say that I’m insane.
But in the hills where trees abound,
behind a stone wall my paradise found.
A storied life I’m sure it’s had.
The next chapter’s mine and I’m glad.
Its life began in seventeen twenty.
Surely there are creaks and drafts aplenty.
It’s quite unusual, just one of a few.
It’s also quite large, it’s almost two.
Are there spirits? I don’t know.
But if there are I’m sure they’ll show.
And if there’s not that’s OK.
Maybe I’ll be one someday.