The house settles a fraction each winter,
not enough to notice,
only enough to alter the angle of quiet.
In the morning, light leans differently
against the far wall.
Dust reveals its own slow architecture.
I walk the hallway carefully,
as if balance were a courtesy
I could extend to wood and plaster.
Some rooms keep their breath longer than others.
The kitchen exhales in pipes and metal.
The bedroom absorbs the sound of turning.
I have learned not to name what shifts.
Naming implies correction.
Correction implies fault.
The mailbox across the street is painted blue.
When the wind presses against the windows
the glass trembles without protest.
It does not break.
It only registers pressure.
I try to live the same way.
Allow for weight.
Redistribute.
If something in me tilts,
I adjust the furniture slightly —
a chair closer to the wall,
a table turned to catch less glare.
Even silence has load-bearing beams.
Even restraint must rest somewhere.
At night, the floor releases a single sound —
a small acknowledgment of gravity.
I let it remain.
In the morning,
the house is still standing.
About the Creator
Alain SUPPINI
I’m Alain — a French critical care anesthesiologist who writes to keep memory alive. Between past and present, medicine and words, I search for what endures.
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Comments (4)
Well written poem for this challenge. Keep them coming! 💜
"Even silence has load-bearing beams." Wonderful, and so true. 👏👏👏👏 Great entry!
"The mailbox across the street is painted blue..." Cleverly penned! Great entry; good luck ALain!
I love these lines: "I have learned not to name what shifts./ Naming implies correction./Correction implies fault." It's the hardest thing not to name changes in life, not to try to correct them. Completely against human nature, but that's how we all should live. I bet animals do