The house, weathered by the rain Jake Wise Robin songs and Sunday morning church bells rung, the second house from the end of the street began to rise. Bikes pushed by, and snoring drunks retired from their stoops, recognizing the rain beginning to fall. The gold leafed ‘1300’ reflected honey in the pools of autumn storms, the mouth carved from oak, tired bell molded in it’s throat. Two steps in and the warmth from the stove and the knowing that this is much more than just a home, bodies shared on sofa cushions and gathered chairs buzzing from heady slips of quiet talks and constant conversation. Butter sizzled in a black pan, poured the batter in and flipped; again the laughter from the living room like a door creaking poured into pan, syrup glazed and simmering. Smothered yawns and chairs groaned, as they joined the table. Half lidded eyes and sleep not yet divided from them. There were sunflowers beside the cluster of home magazines sat on top the hickory table which had not yet been weathered by the rain.
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