A poem for Julie, written by Jack, years before they knew they'd buy this farm, and marry here:
Our friends will have to take big steps
Through cattails and splash in puddles
Because there is no path up to the door,
Even though it swings wide open.
The paint is chipped and the floor is warped
And fractured fenceposts hang like teeth on crossbeams
But there is soft music coming from a room in back
And the floorboards are warm, even through their shoes.
They'll come as people will
With many questions, and from far away, or nearby
They look in the kitchen or in the overgrown pasture
Around corners and underneath tables
And after we have eaten much and drank much
And they walk the field back to their cars
They will say "Their meat was like ours, their wine like ours,
There was no secret in that house."
For our secret hides in plain sight
In creaky floorboards and the cracks in your smile
My red hands against your freckled shoulder
An empty field behind the house.
Our secret is a pickup truck
Two feet rubbing together in the night
And asking why I love you is as silly
As asking what makes this house a home.