by Rebecca Laffar-Smith

Created on: May 09, 2009

A Sand-filled Shack

She's standing just outside
on the verge right by the road.
Her eyes are large, she gazes up
at me, her new abode.

I feel like proudly preaning,
before her joyfilled face.
I feel like stretching out my eaves
to give her my embrace.

My timbers feel freshly sprung,
not forty years with age,
and while cut oak, grows no rings
mine's worn from history's page;

and yet to her I know I seem
so fresh and new and free,
she doesn't seem to understand
the life she's giving me.

I shake the crusted flakes of paint
from shutter, sill and shingle,
and feel the buzz of eagerness,
a peaking thrill, and tingle.

The dust and dirt cloud windows
but I see her bright and clear
and just for her I steal my soul
and swear to persevere.

For forty years I've stood right here
and forty more I'll stand
and she will love and cherish me,
her home upon the sand.

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