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I miss that old house
Creaking as the wind hurries through
The dry leaves of
Those aging trees;

That old house
My grandfather built?
The windows rattle just a bit;
What an odd comfort.

The metal pipes
Deep within
Clang sometimes,
Thinking they go unheard;

The trees without,
Sentinel on every side,
Never waver in the moonlight
And sometimes wave through the curtains;

What a wondrous chill I’d get
Laying in that hideaway bed,
Breathing in the scent of long-buried sheets
And listening for the distant train
Rumbling down away by the river;

That old house must still creak,
Her aged boards sighing with longing.
Crumbled leaves and broken twigs
The humble crown
Of that old place
I called home.