But Are You Listening?

Observing the Red bird against the white of winter snow, his plump body perched upon a delapitated stone chimney where he sings, inviting the rare wonderer to please come in and hear a story.

When you say everything looks the same, I smile and softly disagree, follow me and I shall show you...

An old oak door that hangs by a single rusted hinge, the smell of old must rises as I slowly push it open, the aged wood lingers, entrapped in the bitter cold in my nose, as I carefully choose what beams to step across.
Stray snowflakes float through broken windows, where brown vines wrap around wooden frames decorated by pods of dehydrated seeds, and there, preserving the green of spring. In a corner closet, a cloak and dress shirt hanging, still waiting for it's owner to perform their daily tasks.
Time frozen in this once warmed home.
Now...this is my favorite part...close your eyes, I'm taking the biscuits out of the oven, as the cast iron skillet pops and cracks from the hickory smoked bacon frying in the pan.
The sound of a plate being laid upon the table,  a crackle, as momma stokes the fire creating flickering warm light that radiates across my heart, the same fire where daddy sits in his rocker every evening and reads his Bible.
The howl of brisk January wind doesn't frighten us, go on, cuddle yourself under the homemade quilt that's laying draped across the worn feathered mattress, where your body can rest peacefully in the quiet of winter, and find comfort and embrace within the old springs that uphold you.
And if by chance still you can only see and feel the cold of this forgotten mix of dark browns and stone, remember the little red bird, who stayed the same color through all of this homes aging years, and know that no matter the state of forgotteness, he still yet sings to the past like they are present, and there he honors the old home place that time has forgotten.