The Carriage House
And by that I mean, Marni’s Carriage House.
So well hidden in its nest of an up island forest
that it feels like a hobbit hole.
This is a view of the long hallway upstairs.
All the while I was taking in the sparseness
Marni was describing the fullness of her family tree
and the room began to come alive with her memories
and the echoes of children’s voices from summer evenings long ago.
I suspect that an empty rocker
would not linger as such in her youth there.
The original plaster and wooden trim boards
had a patina of candlelit giggles
and the whispered turning of every late night page.
I especially loved the angle that the passage takes
right there at the top of the stairs.
The sign of a Yankee waste not carpenter
rather than an English bred strictness of form.
Even deep within the thicket of trees
this building, designed to store horse drawn carriages,
makes room for the light of day.
You can see by the blue cast on those ivory walls
that the sky wants to be remembered as well.