August Dusk at Røros

Drain the pipes and lift the boat up,

carry cushions to the loft.

Put the white sheets on the armchairs,

now the furniture is ghosts.

Count the silver, lock the shutters,

leave the key inside the shed,

in the coffee tin,

like always, like my father's father did.

Goodnight house, sleep till summer.

Keep our echoes on your walls.

Every laugh from every August lives in you when winter falls.

We will come back when the ice lets go.

We always do.

The house knows.

One last coffee on the porch step.

One last listen to the lake.

The rowan's berries turning,

that's the sign

it's time to break.

Goodnight house, sleep till summer.

Dad always touched the doorframe twice before he left.

I do it now.

I never asked him why.

I didn't need to.