She is a house,
More like a cottage.
Small, quiet, quaint,
We all know the kind.
She is kind,
Her doors are unlocked,
And everyone is welcome.
Many come and go,
And some she wishes would stay,
But she understands
That there are other houses
That they want to visit, too.

From the road she looks perfect,
Like the house you want to settle in,
Raise a family,
Grow old and pass away in.
But when you get close
Enough to smell her wildflowers
Sitting on the porch,
You can see her pastel paint,
Peeling and cracking from
The sun's rays.
You can hear the floor squeak
From years of slight mistreatment.
You see the tiny nicks and scratches
On the furniture,
And the once polished silver
Is beginning to cloud.

The fireplace isn't quite warm enough,
The walls aren't quite thick enough,
The roof leaks here and there
In the heavy rainstorms.
Maybe she isn't the house
You want to settle in,
Raise a family in,
Grow old and pass away in.

But for now she will do,
Because she offers some warmth.
And in the morning you will leave,
Possibly visit another house,
Or cottage,
Or mansion.
But her fire will still be lit,
Her furniture will still be there,
And her doors will still be unlocked.