dave steger

The House on the Hill

There is place far away in the distant trenches of my mind.
I can see it when I want to, but to others it rests blind.
Way up north it stands, a small aging house on the hill.
The kitchen smells of pine and flowers line the windowsill.
To get there you meander down the narrow highway through the wood.
Everyone who saw it would stay forever if only they could.
Outside reeks of imminent snow,
The fires always lit and makes the house glow.
Every so often in the echoing chasm of night,
I pull the covers up and in my stomach feel the fright.
The horror hinders my sight and by morning I feel all right.
The fiery storm passed, and the white had amassed.
Death took the clouds away with a bite of the blues.
I was left with no more clues, but to ask someone for cues.
As always silence lingered amongst the pews.