What the House Kept

They loved my lamp when summer filled the room,
my wit took wing; the rafters sang.
Then frost came, fang-deep, black wire for bloom,
and old nails answered with a clang.

One by one their soft hands left the door.
No thunder. No clean villain to arraign.
Latch clicked once. The hall asked for more.
A cold cup practised being rain.

Bless cold? I almost named my guilt.
I liked the plaster giving way.
It stripped oak from paint, beam from gilt,
and showed the rot I would not say.

Few stood. Fewer. The rafters knew:
a house is judged by what it loses too.

F.S.F