Ten Years of Old Floors

Ten years of old pine floors and wavy windows
that let the outside in,
secrets held in unknown histories.
Walls that were, doorways gone.
Rooms and roof lines gained and lost, 
mysteries beyond unraveling.

The marsh is clothed in browns and tans,
as when we first arrived,
muted promise of discovery.
The years have changed it.
Populations of cattails, wild rice and jewelweed
jockey for position.
Like life itself, 
never static.

Ten years taller are the trees. 
Sycamores and yellow poplar scrape the sky,
long-fingered twigs stretching toward the clouds,
beech and holly growing together in community,
thin places where the Divine stoops low. 
Yet some are gone, 
remembered only by fallen remains, 
ghosts among the living, 
reminders of an earlier time.
I miss them.

For ten years we have been gifted.
Gifted with an old house with old pine floors, 
by trees and fields, woodlands and water;
Gifted by life itself, 
and ten years of memories,
of blessings and of growth.
Ten years of gratitude.