orchestrated voice

It's eerie
sometimes
the way your love ghostly drifts through the house where you were born.
Monoliths of ancestors gaze down upon ancient limestone floors that were laboriously carved somewhere in france:
floors that carry the memories of lavender and trees clinging to the sound of orchestrated voices.
Rooms wander and converge with walls
while ivy trails your dreams and comforts the swallow's nest.
You never seem to wonder as your foot touches the cold stone from a bed wrapped in linen where the swallows fly when the soul awakens captured memories,
and a lone owl echoes from the ruined bed of a carriage house.
The early morning light floods and protects the windows with orbs of light
as the sound of water from the kitchen sink follows the trail of a piano beginning to practice notes on a scale.
The paths follow the garden flowers to wild fields and echoes of cellos finding their way through the mist.
In the garden,
in the early light
you compose the morning on soft strings of your cello
while the piano within walls covered in ivy and morning glories contines to play the notes of a scale.
Then,
like colours that follow a thought,
in one soft intake of life,
the house breathes a sigh of relief from the conflict of ancestors.