Houses for haunting

Some houses are for haunting
With crickets on the floorboards and portraits on the walls
They are not made from linoleum and granite and warmth
But moonlight and copper kettles and secrets and chandeliers
I used to know a house for haunting
Houses for haunting reside on hills
Surrounded by gnarled, old forest and fruit trees heavy with frosty rot
Or in wind-swept meadows with wildflowers perpetually leaning to the side
Sun doesn't dare impede on houses for haunting
Sun is happy to lounge outside and hide it's flaws
The peeling paint and rusty hinges and falling brick chimney
The smell of sorrow and the floor's pitted tearstains and the way the windows frown
The sun is good at hiding that
But sun is not made for houses for haunting
Something is living in houses for haunting
No one knows if it is ghosts or it is vampires or it is memories or it is time 
Stopping to dance with the dust for a moment
Something is dying in houses for haunting
It may be hope, or foolishness, or innocence, or boredom, or squirrels, or maybe me
Something is singing in houses for haunting 
And the songs are deep and rich and echo throughout the hallowed hollow hallways
A grand piano creaks along to meandering music and someone is operetting a world away
In between tiles grow saplings and spruce
Up on the rooftop a dove makes a nest of straw and hair and baby teeth and flowers
There is restlessness in the walls and dreams in the attic
And though the Bills and Katherines and Marjories who owned the house have disappeared
Something is living in houses for haunting