Music filters through
open windows,
muffled by gossamer curtains
hung by loving hands.
Weathered wood rocker
sways in time to the beat.

Lazy afternoon sunlight
drifts among the treetops.
Those tiny planters of long ago
grown strong through years
of care.

Cardinals compete with
the stereo sounds
as they find their way
to a birdhouse,
only three branches up
so little hands could reach
to fill the seed.

Those hands, now grown as well,
are weathered as the wood
they rest upon.
As the music fades away
a single thought prevails;
it's good to be home.

03/27/2005