The proud sea captain who built it
\ndecades before, the grandest house of all
\nthe islands, never imagined a man
\nlike Stephen Ash would one day inherit it,
\npainting the exposed lath on the ceilings
\nwith bright colors and writing mottos
\nabout life and art right on the walls<\/p>\n
of the stairwell. We pass by them
\non the way up, pass the bedroom
\nof his overbearing, practical father, asleep
\nin the gravesite down the street, to linger
\nin the room where Stephen once stretched
\ncanvases for the old woman who long ago
\nrented it, telling him with a raised finger<\/p>\n
like his to me as he stands, nearly
\nto the top of the doorframe, in old, cracked
\nshoes, his pant-cuffs rolled up, buttons
\nforgotten on his shirt: “Look around you,
\nStevie, gather the truth in your eye.”
\nSixty years later, his own attempts at art
\nhave taken over each dusty, faded<\/p>\n
landing we come to: distant, lit strands
\nwith trees, odd angles of ocean and sky,
\npaintings finished and unfinished,
\nhis kind of housekeeping after being kept
\nby other houses all his life, sealed up
\nwindow and door. Now, in the grand ruin
\nof this house become his ruin, he leads me<\/p>\n
to the final stairway, below an opening
\nso bright it leaves the two of us almost
\nin darkness, its light, his light. Above us
\nas I climb behind him, the sound of the wind
\nthat blew away the last rail of the widow’s
\nwalk last winter grows in our ears, but
\nnever mind, he says, on the windiest days<\/p>\n
he ties the rope cinched there to the rafter
\naround his waist so he won’t blow
\naway, too. And suddenly Stephen’s outside
\non the roof so I can stand on the top step,
\nwith him in the wind and light. Far off,
\nbeyond the the town’s settled streets and rows
\nof gravestones, the shimmering islands,<\/p>\n
large and small, break free from the land,
\ntheir wild, beautiful trees floating as if
\non air all the way to the horizon. “Look,”
\nis all he says, oddly calm with his flying
\nwhite hair and his smile that is not mad
\nexactly. Then I stand out on the roof
\nbeside him as the two of us gather it in.\n
<<\/span> Old Poets<\/a><\/p> <\/div>\n<\/div>\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n My Mother’s Harvest …<\/a> ><\/span><\/p> <\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n Stephen Ash’s Invitation The proud sea captain who built it decades before, the grandest house of all the islands, never imagined a man like Stephen Ash would one day inherit it, painting the exposed lath on the ceilings with bright colors and writing mottos about life and art right on the walls of the stairwell. […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":6946,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"builder_content":"\n