Old White House

An old house sits
In a field of long yellow grass.
The field must be still planted sometimes.
It’s not started to get overgrown
Even at the edges.
The house though, hasn’t seen anyone for a while.
You can just tell.
The paint used to be white.
It’s peeling now and yellowing.
One old oak stands near
And the house slumps a little,
Leaning in, I guess, toward the tree,
The only friend left from the old days.
The glass from the windows is gone,
Slowly turning back to sand buried in the grass
Or in larger shards on the floor inside.
The door still stands
Violating expectations by not dangling from one hinge.
It feels like kids once played here,
Under the tree,
Running through that sturdy old door,
And staring out of the windows when it rained.
A man probably once came in from work
Wearing his hat
(because all men wore hats then)
But always taking it off inside.
Surely many meals were cooked in the kitchen off the back.
There had to be laughing
And crying.
Once this house was new and
Life happened in and around it.
Storms beat down on the wood,
Sound and fury signifying…
Signifying the reason houses are built.
Summer suns baked the boards.
Winter winds chilled them.
Years press down.

The people are gone.
The storms and sun and wind still come
But the important thing;
The thing that’s really important;
Is that the house still stands.

Sometimes still standing is enough.