This Old House

I smell the dust in this old house and with a finger I trace out on the mantel my name.

Beneath my feet as I walk I hear its soft cry as the battered floor creaks.

This old house is quite different, queer in fact, yet in many ways eerily the same.

I smell the dust; I hear this old house and then realize that it is me.

I am weathered and worn, my outer surface cracked and peeling by time.

My roof is missing its shingles and my windows wince as they draw in the dull light of eve.

I have withstood many of life’s storms; sometimes my walls have been badly shaken.

Yet my foundation is laid upon the rock of faith, it remains unmoved and not forsaken.

Though I know that time will eventually win and this old house will tumble to the ground.

Its shell will become a twisted mess, so soon to dust it shall turn, never again to be found.

However in truth its foundation shall remain- just a tiny remnant, only thus a silent reminder of me and my time.

Its memory no more except by those who this old house hath touched in both heart and mind.

J. Allen Wilson © 3/18/2011

~~~~We shall all pass away and we will be remembered not by the size of our house, but by the foundation on which it was laid…Faith- Love and Kindness toward one another.~~~~