The Country House

Arden Silver '27

I take in

the little brick house,

with its little flower garden in the back,

where little butterflies of white, gold, and orange flit past the

little bumble bees zipping between the lengthy stalks of sunflowers

and bushels of zinnias,

their little vibrant petals painted magenta, fuschia, and tangerine,

standing out against the sea of green.

A warm breeze dances through the little garden,

caressing its gentle hands on the little buds and leaves of its neighbors.

The breeze emits

a fragrance of the towering pines surrounding the little brick house.

The little terpenes louring and inviting me 

to come breach the walls of its fortress,

to feel the dried pines crunch beneath my little bare feet

as I bound through the branches and trunks,

with little rays of sun 

                                  peaking 

                                               through,

lighting the path. 

If,

I ventured inside the little brick house,

there would be

the little sun room,

its space cluttered with

little trinkets and 

toys and 

ceramics,

that my grandmother had collected.

There would be the little room upstairs,

where I slept in as a child,

with raggedy anne dolls lining the shelves,

their bright red hair made of little tendrils of yarn,

contrasting the pale blue and white wallpaper. 

Their little black button eyes peering through the darkness

guarding my little body,

while I slept under the little patchwork quilt,

my grandmother made with her little gentle hands.