The
old house
On
the tree shaded street
Was
a more vivid home
Not
one of a legion
Of
identical dwelling boxes
But
one of a special kind
That
had its own features
Unlike
all the others
It
is the singularity that draws it
Out
into the forefront
Ingrained
brightly in memory
Perhaps
it was the summer sun
That
welcomed our arrival
Or
the pungent berry bushes
Resplendent
in deepest green
Hiding
the bumpy black gems
Maybe
it was all of it
It
was short lived
A
place to get our feet wet
Along
with everything else
In
the small Oregon town
And
I am told it rained often
But
I recall only sunny days
And
amber tinged afternoons
In
that quaint ancient hovel
As
soon as student housing opened
We
landed in apartment life
Once
more in similar boxes
But
it was still more variant
Than
the hive I was born from
Flown
free from that beehive state
Ready
to muck about
In
the emerald colored cities
Among
the ducks and beavers
No comments:
Post a Comment