Jacob’s house of dreams was built
for just one thousand dollars
The sharp chip of chisel
carves a sweet canticle
Philip (The Carpenter) Fancy’s hammer
wiped with sweat from heady noon heat
He crafts a kitchen with eight doors and –
high in the woodshed – a shoemaker’s bench
for the snipping and shaping of tough leather
A tiny boot laced and buttoned
Intricate lines of tacks
Tapped into its sole
Delicately
Deliberately
Spaced by Jacob’s rough hand
Each tap echoes the sweet refrain
Song of late Saturday summer rain
A symphony of children yet to come
along the Pleasant River Road
Loyalist blood will only be
a whisper in their veins
A seaman’s frosty breath
Salt of Martha’s Vineyard
Carried here carefully by
Ida Newcomb, the new bride
The glow and blow of her
grandfather’s blacksmith brawn
carve her handsome face
Quiet woman on a quiet land
Her morning-still spirit
gently paces an equally
solemn and stubborn grace
Under the dark canopy of
Lunenburg County stars
Under this strong roof
Jacob’s house becomes an altar
A cradle for five children’s deaths
July – in the heavy heat of hayfields –
Ida waits the first one’s going
Her final birth
For a month, the infant
shares the close crib
with Florrie, her stronger twin
Breathes her strength
Blessed by gentle touches
from five sturdy brothers
Until that first frail August morning
Window sash hoisted high
In the room to the right
at the head of the stairs
The curtain hangs limp
The house holds its breath
Ida cradles her gentle daughter
Blesses the last fragile gasp
Anoints her with her own name
It will travel with this wee one
on its soon long journey
To the waiting hole
on top of Cemetery Hill
The hush of her morning lullaby
Its sweet scent denies
the whisperers of death
Birthed from birth
Ida Drucella’s small soul slips
out through the lathes and plaster
Trembling hands cannot hold her.
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