It was a wondrous place to grow up . . .
My Old Home
It sits at the end of a circular driveway,
In buckskin-beige with a gray column chimney.
Its owners remodeled and trimmed it in white,
Adding on bedrooms like sprinkles of salt.
Once, plain and humble as slices of white bread,
It held me inside its secure walls of comfort.
That house heard my tears, my tempers, my lies,
And fostered stability with its strong, sturdy stance.
When rain clattered down from the eaves on the sides,
It sang me to sleep with its melody of drips.
Its planks and its drains, which the wind made groan
Were like a mother’s voice, caressing and sweet.
I leaned on that house, and it grew me up wise.
I planted and weeded, learned to mow its green lawns.
I played in its shadows and gave it my trust.
It was my home, my roots, the bank of my childhood.
But that house is not mine now, nor ever again.
New children are dwelling within each of its rooms.
Is it raising them too as it once sheltered me,
Or does its soul only lie in the memories I keep?