A house illuminated, and no imperfection bared
unfinished, well used, improperly repaired.

Shabby when I find it, with unkempt yard
grasshoppers flitting among broken bottle shards.

Crooked door, bubbled windows make a wise old grin
crumbling steps, sunken porch through all time inviting in.

The floors creak soft sighs, sending up dust motes
a record of past lives, passed down in quiet notes.

The sun rests here on shoddy tables, dusty bookshelves, broken chairs
A house illuminated, and no imperfection bared.