THIS IS THE PLACE
I’m sure in mind this is the place
Behind old curtains made of lace,
Where as a child I used to play.
I wonder if there’s still a trace.
I had to make this quest today,
Before they tear all trace away.
The wrecking crew may well be blind
To what this house might have to say.
Perhaps there’s auras left behind.
I fancy them within my mind.
An open door now beckons me —
I enter in; what will I find?
The house is bare, with naught to see.
It yawns in all it’s apathy,
And all that’s left is memory.
And all that’s left is memory.
2/6/00 Phyllis DeWitt VanVleck