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'My Home'

April 10, 2003|by Ruby Diffendal/Poet

The Little Home with no one in it.

Whenever I walk the cedar row.

Along the potato run.

I go to a poor little farm home,

With no life, no noise, no fun.

I suppose I've gone there a million times,

I always stay more than a minute.

And walk through this home, the lonely house.

The home with no one in it.

I never have known a haunted house, but I hear


there are such things, that they hold the talk

of spirits, their mirth, and sorrow, and things.

I know this house isn't haunted, and I wished it were. I do.

For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two.

This house on the hill over looking the creek.

Needs a dozen panes of glass.

And some one ought to weed the walk,

and take a scythe to the grass.

It needs new paint, and roof repaired, and the vines should be trimmed and tied.

But, what it needs most is someone living inside.

If I had money and my bills all paid, I'd put brothers to work

with brush, saw, and spade.

I'd buy that place and fix it up, the way it used to be.

I'd pick someone from the family who needed a home and let them live there free.

But, a house that has done what a house should do.

A house that has a sheltered life.

That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife.

A house that has echoed the children's laugh and held up their

stumbling feet.

Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone,

That ever one's eyes could meet.

So whenever I go to the "Flat Grounds,"

Along the winding creek.

I never look at this dear little house.

But what I have to weep.

Yet it hurts me to look at this little house.

With the windows falling apart.

For I can't help thinking this dear little house is a house

with a broken heart.

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