My Nook

At the end of bend where the street doesn’t go and the trees hide the roof a wee bungalow, where the drive disappears and no neighbor regimes will be leaning ‘cross fences to bid me hello There’s a nook with a stream sewn into its seams that has whispered forever in all my daydreams and discussed how I long for this peaceful rapport, tucked away from the drumming of cityscape scenes. I can tell that the bungalow dreamed once before by the hand prints of toddlers beyond the front door as if happy, sweet shadows embossed upon walls were remembering babes that were little no more. ‘Tis this nook that has captured me, whimsy and all from the gossiping stream to the daffodils sprawled and the spell of the elegant lilacs at peak that are dripping with blossoms, enough to enthrall. Ah, my Nook! My small nook! Of my Haven I speak, with an informal bungalow next to My Creek; ‘tis your magic of Life that I crave, that I seek, and the comfort of home when my will stumbles weak.