A brown blot in a swarm of yellow
in the Summer and a cushion of green
in the Spring. It’s white crackled brim
is all that separates the splintered walls
from the gravelly top. The smell of exhaust
whirs the inside to life and ragged dogs
trot out from under the seclusive underside.
The hilly bumps follow up with an uneven
hairstyle of wild grasses. The front door
leads to a cacophony of rustic and tech
as the floors are unforgiving plywood
supporting computers, TV’s, and consoles.
Each step risks a hissing creak and leads
to a weathered table that fed mouths old and young.
Open as it is, the valley still clutches
this place. The winds; sometimes a warm kiss
and sometimes a teasing sting push an old tree.
It shaded a crooked swing set made
for the children, but children they are
no more. The dust kicked up by vehicles
cake the walls with each new visitor,
but just like the children, they also
become few and far between. Grandpa’s house
used to be my house too.