The house is sleepwalking

again and we can hear it,

wooed by the moon, softly

wailing in the attic, primitive

planks and joists creaking,

and its head striking the collar

beam, moments before its

slow shuffle down the stairwell

where it gathers and warms

itself by the barrel stove before

continuing on down the narrow

hallways to contemplate the

ritual of living, knowing it

will outlive us, and awaits

our reimagined sleep. Then,

as night draws on, it alights

in slippered feet upon our

window-seat and, wanting

for beauty, whistles a mournful

tune that I can recall from

childhood followed by its

eerie endsay to the stars

and the dying wilderness.