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The House that is my Home
Permit me to tell you about a house
a simple house which sits on a hill
with hands of ivy
climbing its walls fingers extended
with paint once fresh
now ancient rolls of parchment
with small fractures
weathering through the grounded brick
as the cracks run through the earth of a drought
But the house I remember most
shielded away nature’s worst
of the red heat and wintry cold
of the bullets of rain and blades of wind
being the eye
that remains calm in the storm

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This article has 2 comments.
When I was younger I always read a book titled The Little House (by Virginia Lee Burton) and I've been strangely fond of houses ever since.