Childhood Home

The pale-yellow siding on the house –

The dark green tiles of the roof –

Sat on a dead-end, quiet street.

The cold brisk of the early morning –

The bird’s singing, the howling of the wind -

Spring is near.

In this house, magic filled the air –

The laughter that would ring through 

The halls - would soon be just an echo

Of what had once been. 

The clock in the kitchen ticks -

As I sit at the round wooden table -

A reminder that my time here in this

Place is meant to be short lived.

This house is made of memories -

The good, the bad, the in-between.

A place that was not built to last forever.