poem, "the magical house"

weeds and vines covered the window laden room, other houses in the quiet, sleepy neighborhood looked on with indifference, yet longed to be like the magical house.

the girl walked by, her footsteps slowed deliberately to catch a wondrous glimpse of the old house.
she wished the voice of the house could speak to her of it's memories and the music played inside.

she wondered if anyone looked back at her from behind the ivy covered window. was there an orange cat walking quietly through the rooms......or little mice who had inhabited the old house for years upon years, undetected and unheard? if only she could see inside. she could only imagine with her wild and childlike imagination how magical the house must be, beyond the ivy and the weeds and the heavy feeling of time.

how odd this house was in this clean and manicured neighborhood, void of trees and meandering, crooked vines. how misplaced the other quiet houses must feel as the wild yard across the street beckoned to them.....telling tales of giant's mountains and elves who sang and nights filled with fairy tale stories and poems. the old house reached out as best it could, but still the immaculate houses sat quiet and indifferent, their hidden hearts hoping for even just one bright moment of living the life of enchantment the old house exuded. perhaps, when it is very late one night and every heart is quietly slumbering, the plain and unencumbered houses can break away to see.....as the girl longed to do....the running and dancing spirit of the old house and it's pages of time and story.

the little girl turned slowly and walked away with quiet, deep reluctance, going back towards her home, glancing several times to see the wonderful old house again, her heart partly staying behind to listen again to the voice of the house. her footsteps tread on down the sidewalk, taking with her such magical memories and words as to keep her heart alive. she was sure she would return again and again. she had found a favorite place, a place of dreams and fairy tales and the language she had remembered from her happy childhood.


debbie schramer 2017