The Yellow House

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Abstract

house that sat at the edge of a farm It held dreams of the ghosts who lived there Whom I never knew Yet I imagined their stories In days long gone byThe yellow house spoke to me As I quietly passed The place where I dreamed of farmers in days of yoreUntil one day, The Yellow House was razed And it sat in a m

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essy, unrecognizable heap on the side of the winding road I came around the bend The ghosts no longer whispered Then lo and behold I saw a solitary well sitting in its place surrounded by a bed of straw Where weeks later bright yellow daffodils came up and Bloomed in the shadow of the well© Victoria Ponte, 2021.</article></body>

A true poem

Each day as I drove down the winding road to the horses I passed an old yellow house that sat at the edge of a farm It held dreams of the ghosts who lived there Whom I never knew Yet I imagined their stories In days long gone by

The yellow house spoke to me As I quietly passed The place where I dreamed of farmers in days of yore

Until one day, The Yellow House was razed And it sat in a messy, unrecognizable heap on the side of the winding road I came around the bend The ghosts no longer whispered Then lo and behold I saw a solitary well sitting in its place surrounded by a bed of straw Where weeks later bright yellow daffodils came up and Bloomed in the shadow of the well