Poor Old House
Poor old, half-painted, clapboard house.
Your hallways quiet –
no more laughter and joy,
pain or grief,
births and deaths.
No more babies' cries
or children playing in the yard.
When Grandma drew her last breath
you released all those years
of living and loving
out of your windows
and they floated skyward.
Silently now, you sit
save the occasional chirps of crickets
and creaking wood on a windy day.
You once held much joy, and
the hopes and dreams of all
who slept within your walls.
Now we drive by and
have forgotten what you used to be –
now you're a sad,
half-painted clapboard house,
no longer a home.
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