Poem, My dream house

 

My dream house would be small, quaint, and cozy; nestled near a small downtown or deep in the woods, it would have an obscene number of windows so I may see the bustle of the town or hear a family of owls. My dream house would have a Dutch door off the kitchen leading to the garden where the ducks could run to a little pond just beyond it. My dream house would have a kitchen with a long oak dining table with plenty of chair though most would never be filled, the house would echo with the quiet lonesomeness that had been buried in its bones; its bones that would creak when a knock was heard at the door. My dream house would have bookshelves everywhere possible so I may be reminded of what could’ve been, what life I missed from fear of missing it. My dream house would have rosemary planted by its red door, for what reason I haven’t a clue, but my mother always planted some so there must be one. My dream house would sing as I baked, life filling the kitchen with every drop of vanilla or dash of salt. My dream house would not feel so lonely as its walls briming with life would have found a new companion in me.

The witch.