A House For Wenonah Poem by Dennis Parker

He asked for her hand in marriage
She said, “Yes, but only after you
built me a house.”
Wasting no time,
He began the next day.
He, himself, built it
from the foundation
to the hand pounded copper roof
with its high pointed
conical caps on two towers.
As he worked, he whispered her name
“Wenonah, oh Wenonah.”
He laid every floor plank
and raise every wall stud
with a sigh of “Wenonah” on his lips
He spread the wall plaster over the slats breathing her name into the very walls.
“Wenonah”
He added the filigree to the porch cover
and balustered the balcony,
Wenonah filled his thoughts.
It stood in Two Story, Victorian grandeur
a declaration of his love.
A monument to Wenonah.
He spent every spare minute,
day and night putting
the finishing touches
on his wedding gift to his bride.
What he could not do, he supervised.
His hands touched every board,
every nail, every piece of glass
the way she touched his heart.
He stood at the top of the staircase
peering down into the foyer and
He spoke her name as he descended.
Tripping on some unseen fixation he fell.
He fell to the bottom and lay there
at the threshold and whispered,
“Wenonah” then closed his eyes.
It still stands there in the field
surrounded by the encroachment of time.
It stands there as a monument
to lost love’s labor,
to love’s desire.
It was built with love
in the quest of love,
but was never filled by love.
It stands empty,
except for the tree that grows through
the floor of the parlor
and the rocks that have found their way
in through the windows and the
occasional sound of a wind
that seems to whisper, ” Wenonah”.

It stands unpainted, graying,
it’s pane-less windows look out
over an un-kept field of tall grass
and weeds as it crumbles.
A memorial to what could have been.