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So
You’re so pastel yellow
You’re so heather grey
You’re so hopes to fit in
And so wait just a day
You’re so pastel yellow
You’re so heather grey
You’re so stitches undone
And so lost on the way
You’re so pastel yellow
You’re so heather grey
You’re so just you and I
And so we’ll be okay
Heidi Franke Aug 12
Most days are like an empty worn
Out house
On 1300 south block
It sees all the wealthy
Empty from the lot of Costco to it's front door. -If you pay heed.

But no one pays attention
Or spends on empty houses
Those with front steps or beds to sleep in
Most walk by thinking something like,
That house did to itself.
To get to where it is.
But they would be dead wrong.

It takes years for a house to empty out
Because of neglect from all sources. For misfortune, no matter all the life inside.

I imagine this was a yellowbird house so proud to be built.
People, a cat or two, maybe an obedient dog walked in and out
Someone cared enough to put a roof on. It thought complete.

Some people are like empty houses. But, people bleed, they cry, that get torn down by so many things. One thing in common though, houses and people are eventually demolished if no one cares.  Time that waits for no one.

Someone may crash into your car of goods as you exit the fancy box stores that make you think more is better. But then your son collapses at home from an overdose. You had no clue he was on ******, did you? What were you paying attention to?  He dies from brain death. He hadn't even reached 26.

At what was your yellowbird home will now be remembered as the sound you heard of your young son's thump as he hit the bathroom floor as you readied for work.  

Split in half. Someone dies. You didn't plan on being an empty house now today, did you?

So, what will you do about it?

Seek to study, exam life? Rebuild, reprioritize?  It's just time. What have you got to spend? Time the only true currency worth its weight.
I can't even remember six-year-old me.
I don't know if she liked yellow like I do now.
I don't know if she hated spaghetti the way I do.
I don't know if she loved the sky and the clouds and the stars and the moon the way my big self does.

And I always wonder...
What would she think of me?
Are we following the dreams we had at that age?
Are we facing life with the same joy I think we would’ve had at six?
Would she ask me why I like yellow so much if she used to love pink?
What if she loved spaghetti and wanted to eat it every day?
I think maybe she did like the sky like I do.

(What’s not to like?)
soft and tender little poem of me trying to remember the sweet kid I once was
I'll be the flower in your garden
Golden mustard yellow ones
So rich. warm and soft
Like the sun with a blanket on

Nature is a gift.
I saw a pretty picture
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