Waiting

The house waits quietly,

surrounded by sheltering trees.

Framework designed to withstand fierce storms 

makes a bold presence among the homes lining the street.

Windows allow the nurturing light of the sun

to splay across its patchwork carpet, its wooden floors.

The tiled bathroom sits silently,

its basin sink porcelain white,

the shaggy blue rug sleeping peacefully,

in its own right.

A forlorn dining table remembers breakfast,

as its chairs rest gracefully,

for the return of familiar visitors at last.

It is the cushions of the couch that beckon

most of all,

up to the very second

of the opening door in the manor hall.

Not to be undone,

neighboring structures compete,

with rigid bricks and driveways concrete.

But the blue house on Maple Drive

claims a life more than what others contain inside.

And the stillness breathes in perpetuation,

as anxious as a puppy,

in its lonely situation

for the tread of youthful feet

and the quickening of a heart beat.

It is that small child sound

that the house longs for most,

boundaries unbound

with adolescent hosts.