One of the themes that inspires many of my poems is something that is hard to describe. It’s the subtle feeling of how one’s house becomes a container for one’s spirit, for one’s identity even. I speculate that this feeling is significant to me perhaps because for most of my life I didn’t feel that I really had a place where I belonged. So to live in a place where I have a strong sense of belonging is like my mind or my spirit has flowed into that place and settled naturally, like water poured into a pitcher finding its level. This kind of feeling provides the emotional motivation for some of my poetry even if I don’t make overt reference to it in the poems. It’s there in the back of my mind anyway. For example here is a poem I wrote in the late summer of 2012 not long after I moved to Cazenovia to be with my lover (now wife) Heidi, and settled into her magnificent old historic house.

Staying Home

When I first came here I saw
the house as a channel for the drift of time
the light breathes in and out
slowly through the windows
under the high ceilings
and the antique fixtures
the floorboards incised with age
within this arrangement
we dissolve at night
and are reborn in the day
in a labyrinth of doors
our indistinct presence
there are rooms filled with books
in which we read each other
awake and content
to be among these objects
left out in the open

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