In the dark of a winter morning
I hear a creak of boards
This is not a haunting
The house is old and in the winter
A hard wind can push a wall
Or the dry flow of the furnace air
May shrink a floorboard
And the house squeaks or cries.
But this sound is not the usual winter complaint
It comes from a particular place in the house
And has its own particular echo
It comes from one of the boy’s old bedrooms
Empty now for years
And it sounds as if someone moved in the bed.
I might as well have smelled invisible roses
For I am immediately transported in time
To the day when such sounds were normal
And signaled that some five year old
Had wakened early
And was getting out of bed
Or pulling some book or toy from a shelf.
It was the sound of life.
Some little man was exploring
And trying to keep quiet
In other words, it was
The sound of a full house, full of life
And of children for whom each morning was a new adventure,
A new world.
And that was our world, for a time.