Eve Taft is a writer who lives in Minneapolis. She loves James Joyce, rainy days, and stories about magic.

between the lake and the mountain
for Doug Green

when the wind comes, as it always does
the old house shakes, shivers
sheets of rain hurl against it
unconcerned, the walls and windows settle
looking over the lake as lightning dances

the foundation of 9526 east lake road
has seen more than a hundred winters
it knows in its stone that snowmelt is on the way
followed by un-air-conditioned summer days
then autumn leaves fluttering by
winter will come again, reliable and bitter
the foundation will last out every storm

raindrops play drums on the newly built attic and steep peaked roof
which were imagined under the curls of my artist father
who cut up a cheerio box and made a model
which my mother approved of if the roof was brilliant red

the farmhouse dwells between the lake and the mountain
a vineyard grows around it, tinging it every fall
with the sweet and tangy smell of ripe concords
its door stays unlocked
in the country, people leave tomatoes on your doorstep
rather than picking your locks

the rooms overflow with books
folk and jazz, a prairie home companion
warm apple pie and fresh air
my mother’s diplomas and my father’s caricatures
the echoes of old fights and my mother reading out loud
my sheets of cross outs and spidery sentences
furniture my father made
remnants of ourselves in years gone by

old grandfather clock calls out the time
a bit past one in the morning
on schedule, the train whistle blows
the wind is roaring
but yellow light from the west corner window
glows on the wet grass which will smell sweet
when the sun rises over the grape rows
and the house casts its long shadow