The Little House
Love was a little house built to last
but slowly surrendered to winter’s blast.
A rocking chair sits in disrepair.
The scent of dust fills the air.
The cold stone of the hearth lies unforgiving.
Ashes are silent, gray, un-living.
Flames were quenched and smoke dissipated,
darkness finds the room isolated.
The hand that stirred glowing embers
has since gone still.
The breath that once encouraged life
has ceased its swell.
Gusts whistle down the chimney unheeded.
Kindling for the fire cast down, unneeded.
What is left to keep it warm?
The little house against the storm.
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