on nights like this

I wish there were some way
to cut a small slit in the wall
and let the air, trapped since
first construction, spill into
the room and tell its stories.

I wonder who walked these
floors in those first days,
when the pin oak at the curb
was smaller than the house
and the street not so shaded.

I welcome those ghosts,
the spirits that have seeped
into the floors and sit next to us
at dinner, whose luminance
lights our house in the dark.

I remember I am only here
as one who has called this
house a home, worn the finish
off the floors, and left the
lights on in the kitchen.

Peace,
Milton