Story of A House (from the perspective of a Tree in the Yard)

by Jeanine Cerundolo

The blue shutters yawn in the dark

Not because they move, as we do

But because the shadows on them dance, like light does.

The doorknob twinkles as night falls

Reflecting starlight, it knows how to let people enter

And it knows when to give back some sassy friction

Closing walls, connecting corners.

The family comes and goes from this place

It is the space where they fight —

It is the space where they make up from fighting.

It is the place where they do some learning,

but more importantly, some growing.

The family lives here

The house holds that life, extending its own.

I am part of this home

I am the one who boasts birdsong in the mornings

I am the one who shows off seasons

I am the one whose bark is rough but whose moss is soft

I am the one whose earthy roots run deep even as they are in love with heaven

I am the one who bridges what is still and what moves gently and consistently

I am the one who shows anyone who wants to listen: how to go upwards

I am the one who sways when swaying is required

And who stays when no one else will even pause for a breath.

The pavement connects the home to the streets that take Everyone Elsewhere

The shrubs tell tales of what it is like to prune your own wildness

The ghosts who live here don’t talk much, but they have eyes to see

The walls — oh, these walls hold everything together!

They sing, every squeaky creak a small adjustment to a new reality

They peel, their paint showing signs of weathering the weather

The walls have room for windows who let light in and who let curiosity have a way out

The walls have doors that hint at thresholds between exterior and interior ways of being.

The walls, the doors, the windows, the doorknobs, the pavement, the shutters, and me.

We know who we are

We know what we see.

The family who comes and goes

Who reside in this house

Who make it a home

Sometimes they treasure every memory that is made within our whispers

Sometimes, they forget.

But always, they are living —

Always, they are the ones who make this house

Who make this house

Who make this house.