Tale of an Old Homestead

Tale of an Old Homestead

Way back in the wilderness
where people seldom go,
beside some scraggly junipers,
remains a tale untold.

He was just an empty shell,
a long-abandoned shack.
With weathered skin, he'd given up
to nature's brutal wrath.

Rain and wind slapped ruthlessly;
the sun beat on him too.
And Flickers hammered at his roof,
while inside, termites chewed.

She had watched his suffering,
heard whimpering in the wind.
So from across a weedy yard,
she gently reached for him.

Poison Ivy was her name;
salvation she would be.
He needed just a touch of hope
and, frankly, so did she.

Year by year and inch by inch,
along a picket fence,
he watched as she drew closer yet,
and longing grew intense.

Then one day she brushed his skin,
his anguish she would soothe.
Such tenderness, he'd never felt
and more in love they grew.

They began to notice things.
A beauty they'd not seen,
in flawless songs of Meadowlarks
and fragrance on the breeze.

Skies were bluer than before
around a pleasant sun.
Her leaves would keep intruders out
and gently shield her love.

Through the years, she'd wrapped herself
around him, good and snug.
He felt at peace in her embrace.
Euphoric, he'd become.

Near some scraggly junipers
entwined eternally,
there stands, content, a rustic shack
with his beloved Ivy.


(Written in varied meter with near rhymes)