Casa Vecchia ( The Old House)

In vineyards where past grapes grew fat and fine
the old house stands, with crumbling walls that bare
fine sturdy bones which grace her slow decline.
Still by the door, gold climbing roses shine
among the rampant thistles growing there.

I long to smooth the wrinkles from her skin
and open wide her shuttered eyes once more,
to prune neglect from out and from within,
reclaim the birthright of my long-gone kin,
restore the glories of years gone before

then set a trestle table ’neath the trees
and call to ghosts who swirl in moon-lit beams,
Come feast here, and your shades’ unrest appease
as with new wine, we drink a toast to dreams.