A House on a Hill

A House on a Hill

Serafina Piasentin

On a hill in the distance,

Rolling waves crashing against horizons,

The simple house grazed the atmosphere.

A woman gazed out at the sea of green.

Languidly sprawled on her side,

Smooth edges curved in an elegant stretch.

She wore a gown of sheer fabric,

The kind woven into the universe.

It cascaded from her porcelain skin,

Flowing across the sky, earth and sea,

The architecture of her soul inside out.

She uses her beauty to embrace the ruin,

Stripping a length of her cloth each time,

To wrap around the wound in skin,

That of earth and those who walk upon her.

Canyons in flesh, carved in the canvas,

Blood and stardust stain the curtain above.

She stitches the fabric of the collective soul,

Unconcerned of her own dwindling gown.

For those who found themselves lost at sea,

She sheds the cloth to build a house,

One made of bone, secured with her soul.

Heralding dawn, threads of light on fabric,

She would guide them towards the open door,

Of a house on a hill and the woman it used to be.