A house, when it has been lived in a while,
It is a living thing,
A breathing thing.
It has a heartbeat.
It holds you in the frame of its bones
And you hold it in the frame of your bones.
A house, when it has been lived in a while
Becomes a home, of course.
Its imperfections are part of its charm
Just as your crooked smile is a part of yours.
A house, when you leave it
May not cry for you
At least, not in any way you can discern.
But you will cry.
I will cry.
For the warm sunshine deck memories,
For the sweet honeysuckle scent,
For the maydays in bloom,
For the waving poplars beckoning,
For the memories of childbirth,
For sledding and dogs and hot chocolate gatherings,
For the ashes buried umder the flowers,
For the wild strawberries rampant,
For cozy fireside tea,
For hot-on-the-vine tomatoes,
For the neighbours,
For this house.