Sale Pending

A hopeful poem about finding a home.

Sale Pending

There is a house
building itself
for you and me, dear.
It is pulling itself together,
2x4’s like marrow
and bones,
nails and joints,
and joining.

There is a house
pulling on its cap
of shingles and plywood
and its cosmetics
of paint and plaster.
It is interested in its own making,
in a good first impression.

There is a house,
a fresh house,
silent but for the sound
of its building;
Readying its lawns
for swing sets and sandboxes
sprinklers and honeybells.

There is a house
waiting
with fresh fixtures
for us to fill it with laughter
and children.

The saddest thing
in the world
is a house
left empty.