through tangled weeds and nettles
a home stood, brick and tile
inside the world seems halted;
it’s been lonely for a while

neighbours, though be plenty
and councilmen, neglect–
for deeds unsigned consider
homes in disarray, a wreck

one man, too lonely, passes;
sees the work that must be done
knocks upon the door to find
the story, though there’s none

next door, he asks another man;
who admits forgotten land
for though they border at the seams–
he knows not, name or hand

so in resilient promise, true
he does set about to work
his time, though he’s not precious with
comes high value, unmatched worth

then as the layers he peels back
expose what’s underneath–
blue painted posts, coat hooks hung
and one, too, for a wreath

uncovering a narrative,
though knowing not what’s right
a young sapling on the nature strip
reveals intention, oversight

and this man, in earnest art
though duty lies not his
hands and feet, and one kind heart
made home not, Home again