The Yellow House
A true poem
Published in
May 6, 2021
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
© Victoria Ponte, 2021.
