This house is cold.
The wooden floors have lost
the patter of tiny feet flopping
against them at seven in the morning.
For those feet have grown old,
and moved on.

This house is broken.
The fireplace coughs up dusty
memories of chilly nights,
and holidays passed.
Something once so inviting
has lost it's tender charm.

This house is alone.
The walls whisper
sweet nothings into the air.  
Only to be carried away
by the echoes of the wind
throughout the uninhabited hallways.

This house is a canvas.
A chance to start fresh.
A second chance.
A new beginning.
A work in progress.

This house will become our home.