It seemed simple at first;
White siding, and a picket fence.

Then I saw that it was shabby.
The paint is chipping
The fence boards, crooked.
The yard is becoming a jungle
With grass inches too long
And flowers growing untamed
From a window box
Weather has faded to gray.

The third time I saw it
I noticed the color of those flowers.
Small blue creepers,
And big golden blooms;
Red petals fell to the grass,
Making a carpet
Fit for a star.

Then, I examined the structure.
Large, welcoming windows,
Set into a classically squared two story
(Not counting
That little attic window).

The next time, I gazed more fondly upon
The stranger
Who had become familiar;
Seeing the yard not as a neglected jungle
But the life
That could not be contained by mere walls
And spilled out into the world.
Turning the simple, untidy structure
That could have been separated from the world
By that crooked fence
Into something that was not only reachable
But reached out to you
With tendrils of color and life.

You remind me of that house.