I am not the timber, the plaster, the stone. I am not the foundation, standing alone. My windows are glass, but that’s not what I see, My value is not in my new-gleaming key.
They call me a house when my frame is complete, When I’m hollow and silent on a quiet street. My rooms hold but echoes, my hallways are bare, I am only a structure, a shape in the air.
But then comes the laughter that rings down the hall, The frantic search for a misplaced tennis ball. The smell of the coffee that brews with the dawn, The small, sleepy footsteps that cross the green lawn.
I become the keeper of firsts and of lasts, A living museum of futures and pasts. The notch on the doorframe that measures the height, The smudge on the wall from a pillow fight.
My floors know the rhythm of dancing feet, My walls have absorbed whispered secrets so sweet. I’ve held the deep sorrow of tears in the night, And glowed from within with a warm, festive light.
The wood may be scratched and the paint may be worn, But these are the marks since the moment you’re born. They are not imperfections, but stories to trace, The beautiful map of a life in this place.
So I am not timber, or nails, or a roof, I am tangible comfort, I am living proof That a structure of wood and of stone can impart The feeling of safety, because I’m a heart. A house is a body, a shell you can see, A home is the love that is living in me.
Pam Beach “Beyond the Blog”
If you enjoyed the post feel free to caffeinate the creator. https://beyondtheblog.org/power-the-next-post/
Leave a Reply