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Joyce Thrasher Jan 2014
Oh little house that sits upon our street,
With doors and windows there, replete.
So innocent you look from outdoors,
Just sitting quietly upon your floors.
But, ah, what secrets there you hide
about the family inside!

That family who dwells within your walls,
Who desecrate your floors and rooms and halls,
With shouts and dirt and clothes and clutter-
(Plus random smears of peanut butter!)
And yet you shall let us live within you-
The love you much from frame to sinew.
Joyce Thrasher Jan 2014
In lonely mountain grove I sat
To listen.
The breezes blew, the pines began
To whisper.
The running freshet added voice
To nature’s symphony,
And I was still, and knew with God
A perfect empathy.

— The End —