Soapbox Poet

Finding Home (a poem)

french provincial – cream – gold moldings.

Christmas trees in bay windows and hardwood floors

make way for tiny feet full of wonder.

in square rooms those feet get bigger, he gets bigger

she raises one of her own in bay windows and back porches

tall ceilings leave room for taller kids and cozy conversation.

as time churns and breathes out, lives pass, people shuffle

around on hardwood floors, crayon marks grow the heart.

Wood polish – lemon hushes a silent aroma. Shoes scuff.

Victorian setting – crimson, wine, and class.

Intricate patterns, flowers in carved wood tell stories of those

who coveted it. She coveted the space and seemed to be the last.

Modern day – blow up mattresses and empty wrappers

litter scuffed floors as people breathe in the same atmosphere

with lack of heart and care for the people who passed.

November 15th, the first snowy day – A nostalgic hum echoes

itself off white moldings, Christmas trees in bay windows and hardwood floors.

Tiny paws play and stare at lights in wonder.

Just as gentle fingertips type, a gentle energy looms.

the sun sets over a yellow stucco house and she sighs,

This is home.