The old house
I am almost there
at the old house
where the grass is tall
and the river weeps.
Under floorboards,
moonshine bottles
and newspapers
keep their secrets.
Cold sun, warm moon
and grass in my pockets.
Although I know the roads,
I’ll never reach the old house.
Still I march through shadows
beside the asphodels,
dressed with grief’s garments
shining new and bright as the moon.
Jason Morgan