dearma & poppa's house

everything is still
the highway just a scribble on a sheer white canvas;
evergreens tower on both sides as if to guard some secret
that, if revealed, would make nature lose its wonder.

and there, i see it, tucked away beneath the snowy hill where it belongs.

the house: a world unto itself, immune to time, awaits
where smells and sounds from seasons passed emerge
as if left untouched and waiting my return.

this is where we played and hiked and dreamed of other worlds.
stories that materialized, and, before our eyes
were colourfully brought to life...
through gentle island voices and happy childlike hearts.

so now i'm rediscovering relics in dusty cabinets full of age and
learning from the wisest, remembering what it is to play
and to not have fear of anything.

this food tastes like love, these clocks sound like home;
a sanctuary from the cold and from the world outside
for just a little while.