The little wooden house quietly bakes in the sun
With no expectancy for return of family or friend
The dark and still interior is forever silent
Holding fast the secrets of many hearts now gone

It once wrapped its arms around a living family
Holding them safe against the night
A silent listener to all sorts of sorrows and joys
Watching the raising and taming of boys and girls

The house stands unsteadily on age twisted legs
Clutching vines encroach upon its walls
Gaping windows yawn with perpetual weariness
The crooked door swings listlessly open

Daylight creeps between shrunken wall planking
Like a sliver of joy determined to pierce the sadness
Children's images spill out onto the sagging porch
Their laughter a tinkle of soundless music in the air

A life is not full nor a heart fully grown
That has not experienced sadness as well as joy
To never love and experience its loss
Is to never know the beauty that comes of time