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Do you remember the house by the lake?
The house that was always filled
with a thousand good times,
a house that never saw a tear
nor heard a sad tale,
the house that saw sunrises
and sunsets 
and heard thunder 
and felt rain
on its funny old roof
stuffed with birds' nests
and pine cones
and cobwebs 
and such
that never mattered much
to the people who called it home
because the laughs
kept the funny roof
from falling in
and the good times
kept the old walls sturdy
and straight?
So do you remember the house by the lake?

Do you remember that old tall pine tree?
The one where the owl would sit until three,
and we'd hear every hoot and then every reply
from some owl in the distance
or one passing by?
And then come the morning
the loons would begin
their yodels and wails
that would spread across the lake
like musical ripples
announcing to all
that they would be with us
but only 'til Fall.
For at that time
many others would leave
and return to wherever they came from
and return to their Autumn ways
of doing things
far removed from the Summer,
removed from the pine-heavy breeze,
removed from those carefree days
when Time would take a Summertime break.
So do you remember the house by the lake?

copyright © 2019 Gregory Firlotte

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