The keeping room
old-fashioned place
where all were held
in homey embrace.
Gathering, warming
by hearth and by heart
not valued for size
but as cozy rampart.
Predictable, safe
filled with the known —
it’s in my head now;
I go there alone.
It isn’t this tidy
compartmentalized
but rather like dreams
unrealized:
those who are now
and those who have been
and things that have rusted
and cracked and worn thin.
Things that I touched
with little girl fingers
kitchens and people
whose cinnamon lingers.
My keeping room holds them
for how long I can’t say
but I hold tight and hope
they won’t fade away.
Thanks again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives
and its Vernon Hill Gallery.
