The farmhouse
also awakens,
pine floorboards
and joists unsettled,
plaster walls rattled
by midnight voices.

In certain rooms,
the lace curtains
sift moonlight
with graceful fingers.

Shadows making their rounds
slink past doors and bedposts,
curl into unlocked keyholes,
uncoil time across the duvet.

Just outside, familiar silver trees
conduct an orchestra of illusions:
branches graze the metal roof,
tap tap tap on windowpanes.

It goes this way for hours,
sounds of a haunted choir.

When sleep comes
my dreams are like
balloons brushing
against razor wire.