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.