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My Old House, My Home MAG
Little house on the hill, little
white hand breaching the surface,
palm raised, fingers curled slightly.
Six windows, curtain eyelids closed
snugly after dusk, petunias in the
yard glowing from drops of the moon.
My old house, my dark green shutters
warmed with chords of the sun, alive
with bee nests and baseball skeletons.
My gentle, sloping hill, my feathered
grass that swooned before every sunset.
Bedroom window, my open eye to the
west, horizon of my childhood, my home.
My blue laundry room, walls dressed
in their teal dresses, oceanic threads.
Kitchen tile, rows of even white teeth
checkered in green patterns,
Yellow room, my bedroom walls,
lemon rind smiles, my home.