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The House We Don't Live In Yet

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Below is the poem entitled The House We Don't Live In Yet which was written by poet James Fredholm. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.

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The House We Don't Live In Yet

The morning sun stretches across the sky, 
charging a palette of blues, greens and chalky coastal whites.  
The smell of salt is carried by the early morning humid wind, 
and seagulls search for their first delights.

The sparseness of our beach terrain rises up 
into sweeping, spartan hills where provincial gardens stew.
Our little white bungalow house proudly stands 
on the high promenade and gazes down to the ocean blue.

With stucco walls our house is stout, 
it’s long low face consumes the heat of the clamoring seasonal sun.
Through the wide, arching doors to the four season porch, 
the eaves crown a frame of fragrant cinnamon.

Our long, slender, wall-less garden extends out to the sea, 
where our cliffs afford views of natural luxury.
A centuries old stone staircase descends to our beach, 
where blue waves refract light into love’s estuary.

The four season garden is divided in two, half is for cooking 
and half for the artist’s eye to bravely portray.
The sun warmed, fertile sandy soil has been sculpted 
into rows of herbs, beach fruits and leafs of blue-gray.

The kitchen is open and the heart of this house, 
where home grown love is slow cooked and always eaten close.
Stone floors and wood paneled surfaces appending the rooms, 
with unframed windows to gaze and expose.

Interiors would be decorated with the colors of love, 
painted by hand in the organic way that lovers can.
Our bed is a sand dune of linen and sea bird feathers, 
where sunsets and it’s music seduce us time and again.

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