The Old House
Every day,
it stares at her through her window
Its ancient shingles peeling
Its bushes gnarled and overgrown
The old house has a spirit
A presence that most houses lack
Its windows are like eyes
Sometimes smiling
When it thinks of happy times gone by
Other times slit in disdain
Remembering the tears
Remembering the voices raised in anger
All within its hard wooden walls
So many years of love and laughter
Of tears and tribulations
The house remembers it all.
No one lives there now
It sits alone on the hilltop
She watches it out her window sometimes
Intrigued by its noble beauty
Amid peeling paint and loose boards
For although its inhabitants are long dead
Somehow it's still alive
Although their lives were transient
Some part of them remains
Engrained forever in their surroundings
Keeping the spirit of the past alive
Within the crumbling walls
And even when the walls are gone
And only dust and ashes remain
Their spirits will linger on
The house will never die.