The Old House
For awhile it seemed
I was always
walking up the middle of the road
at night, to the house
where friends and family had already arrived.
I pulled the battered green suitcase on its wheels behind me
and stopped
with the house
just a bit away
where friends and family had already arrived.
The canopies above in the night wind swayed
and brushed each other,
leaves on leaves.
The moon was there or it wasn't.
The road then was short
to The Old House
and its light
where family and friends had already arrived.
No comments:
Post a Comment