The Old Manse, Concord, MA

Would anyone hear it—
the hearth mouthing the language
of flames in summer, small

rips of wind in still air? Would anyone
passing through these rooms--
wheel on their heels, return

to the slim something in air,
not knowing that wallpaper,
desk chair, and andirons all conspired

to tell the house’s book of hours,
her glossy minutes, the infant’s
long fingers, the cousin’s penciled

sketches on the bedroom wall?
Some days simple as grains of rice,
others wider than the children’s

palms spanned on the wavy glass
as they watched things happen.
Even the damselfly alighted

on the sill’s edge is rapt,
wings closed, her iridescent blue
darkening like a storm

as if she too knew the history,
the militia on the bridge,
the children at the windows,

the smoke and thunder of guns.
The children’s father in the field
deciding. Their mother’s voice

in waves, over the turned
earth, calling him in.
The minutemen

who didn’t especially intend
for all of this to begin,
the children at the glass waiting.