Tuesday, April 23, 2013


I didn't think it’d be possible to love this
little blue house in this old neighborhood.
Close together, so much alike, built in ’51.
Our first home, a good place to get started.
Then we’d move on to bigger and better.

In springtime we’d take rides to get a look.
We’d drive slowly, up and down the street,
catching a glimpse of the white picket fence,
bright yellow forsythias, tall and mighty oaks.
Never thinking about all the leaves we’d rake.

I think that’s a lilac bush, I remember saying.
An array of slate rocks served as a walkway,
grape hyacinths on the lawn, a hydrangea row
alongside the three car driveway- a good spot
to learn how to ride a bike or to play basketball.

With porch lights shining, inside the family
who sold the house, packed boxes, we hoped
they hadn't seen us, but wished we could've
gone in to measure windows, to see where we’d
place the sofa, once the lawyer closed the deal.

1 comment:

WR (aka Melinda) said...

This is a very sweet memory story set to poetry. Wonder how many of us drove past that first house waiting impatiently for closing..