Our House

There is a fuzzy old picture

Blurred dim in old black and white

Taken of a house held dear in memory

Soft in the luminous snow light.

It holds a precious spot in the valley

Where the hills gently meet the river bed

Where we walked with old shoes on the bottom

And with grubby, brown hands we were led.

In summer the rapids were singing

In winter the ice held us still

The house sits in shadows and memories

In my heart it remains, always will.

It speaks of a time which was simpler

Its ways were of water pump and shed

I danced in the moonlight in nighties

And then snuck upstairs to my bed.

In the morning the floor boards forgave me

Their squeak was of wooden and worn

My secret was kept in the rafters

And the spirit of writer was born.

I think of the chipmunks and squirrels

That scurried in long grass at night

As I watched for the dawn at my window

And waited for sweet morning light.

It was then that the sunlight brought gladness

As I hurried to bacon and eggs

And stood in the earth of the garden

On brown, sturdy, growing, young legs.

The house nestled there in the valley

Still calls to me some long, lonely nights

And I walk on the green of the rolling lawns

And again all of life just seems right.

cailin raine