Garish, Loud

When I moved into my house I looked at the bare, white walls and cream colored carpet and felt garish. I was too loud for such a place;
I needed deep, dark, star-lit sky to cushion my being for the world.
At this house I can wander outside any time of day or night and be confronted with light chasing away the darkness:
The yellow cast of decorative street lamps take over for the fading sun and deceive the birds into believing that midnight is dawn.
I am often kept awake by the sound of early morning birds confused by human intervention. I toss seeds onto the sidewalk every now and again in reparation.
At this house I learned to live without grass growing under my bare feet; I hated every moment of it. I compromised with climbing vines reaching green leaves and colored blooms into the sky.
I have grass now in that small plot of dry dirt but I have to choose to remember to take off my shoes.
At this house I let go of my more flagrant choices and focused on the colors of the earth in deep season: forest green of summer, midnight blue, grey clouded days.
I feel more comfortable in this subtlety though the white starkness has given way to gentle colors and purposeful decor.
At this house I took time to grow with direct intention, following the graceful example of the house itself. Here I will learn to dance with time, lovingly and honestly. I have wrapped myself in the safety of a moonlit night.