No matter how this house appears
I will always be looking for swallowtails
by the road, nestled in Queen Ann’s arms
watching dragonflies hover over water
and listening to wind in the pines.
I am eternal in fields of dry oats
along the path ancestors walked
where acorns roll beneath my feet
and ivy embraces ancient oaks
touched by juniper scent.
This surge within does not diminish
from years of earth time, nor fade
like fabric left in long-time window light.
Forever I stroll toward youthful sunsets
over that western hill
walking with a child’s hand in mine
first singing, “Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack,”
then “Baa Baa Black Sheep, have you any wool?”
meandering past wild sugar cane toward
orange, and red and yellow blazing glory.
This dwelling’s luster shall not vanish
from eyes of those who care to see her shine
despite weathered boards and broken panes
for I have tasted stars and touched rainbows
with these immortal hands.