There would be three stories, weathered shake shingles,
a tall brick chimney, wraparound porches with spindles,
bay windows in a ramshackle house with gables built
far back from the street in an older part of town;
trees half hiding the place, full oaks, a massive sycamore
over dappled grass, free falling willows, Japanese maples,
a dirt path to a grassy backyard, a winding gravel drive
There would be a drawing room with hard wood floors,
a large stone fireplace, ancient area rugs,
an arched foyer with chandelier, floral wallpaper,
alcoves for reading, a kitchen with hanging pots,
a round stained glass window at the peak,
a red brick patio for cooking out, for playing guitars,
a place for runaway girls to laugh out loud at last
We would have kabob afternoons, taco parties,
overturned milk crates for making speeches,
for Jackleg Johnnys on the sofa telling happy lies,
a wooden deck for sunning together in the nude;
a cottage in the rear for anyone passing through,
a dormer for painting in the early morning light,
a platter of fresh baked cookies on a little round table
just inside the front door for gray winter days
There would be a house like that during haiku summers
where free spirits could gather for love,
and no presidents or kings could send their generals
to drag us off to war
