The House I Am Standing In
Notes from a Tin Roof in Spring
When my grandfather nailed the last tin sheet down
he drove each screw through the raised rib of the metal
so the valley stayed open for water,
channeling it clean off the eave
into the butt below the porch.
Rain knew where to go. He taught it.
🌧️
April again and I am on the steps
hearing what he made receive what always comes,
a tattoo across the pitched and patient tin,
each drop distinct before the whole
becomes a roar that fills the holler
wall to wall, ridge to ridge.
🌧️
He has been fifty-three years gone. His shed
still holds his level, his cold chisels,
a felt hat on a nail above the bench
that no one has moved, and no one will.
His measure pencil worn down to a stub
inside his apron, folded on the shelf.
🌧️
I try to find him in the sound the roof makes,
read the pitch and clatter of it
the way he read a slope,
eye travelling the line until the line
gave up its flaw, its dip,
its secret want of true.
🌧️
April rain comes off Sam's Gap cold and lateral,
strikes the tin my grandfather's screws still hold,
and I am homesick for a house I'm standing in,
the way a sound can make the present
suddenly the past's own country.
What he built, still shedding water.
What returns, still teaching us to bear it.
About the Creator
Tim Carmichael
I’m a firm believer life is messy, beautiful, and too short, which is why I write poems full of heart and humor. I am an Appalachian poet and cookbook author. My book Beautiful and Brutal Things is on Amazon, Link 👇
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Comments (2)
What a cool tribute to your grandfather.
This is lovely. It's like being home sick for the time and not the actual place.