Mark Niedzwiedz
I wonder who lives in the house
with the bright red chimney. Someone must,
for on cold winter mornings,
smoke bellows from the stack,
and the smell of freshly baked bread
stops me in the thaw and snap.
So, I linger for a moment
and stare at this dreamy abode,
lit by the soft edges of snow clouds
and the sun a pale embroidered gold.
All is well with the world then I say to myself.
All is well in the house with the red chimney.
I wonder who lives in the house
with roses around the door. Someone must,
for come late bloom,
peckish birds gather, flock
to taste the plum tree garden
and jam from the pantry pot.
So, I wait at the kissing gate
to see who drinks the cooled barley,
who hangs the crisp, cotton sheets.
Then comes a girl to peg the sky, a threadbare carpet beat.
All is well with the world then I say to myself.
All is well in the house with the red chimney.
I wonder who lives in the house
with the bright red chimney. Someone must,
for you were built to silence the soulless city,
smash the concrete slab, my daydream cottage
with honeysuckle borders
and thick soup made from pottage.
So, if you glimpse me at the fence,
tap my shoulder, then with muddy boots we’ll tread
the creaky stairs, the homely rooms,
and rest our weary bones on a soft feather bed.
All is well with the world then I say to myself.
All is well in the house with the red chimney.