By: Rebekah Blocker
As I brushed my hand on the frame of the door
I sighed. This is it, no more wood peeling.
No more loved color of a bluebird being hatched.
No more smell of kids finger nails in the cork.
No more of the breeze that came through the,
No more shattered windows.
No more giant oak tree that outlived all the climbing.
No more shaded area in half the space.
No more of the lonely chair who waited for a friend.
No more of the cobblestone steps leading to
the No more favorite place
No more badly drawn pictures drawing you into it
No more of my playhouse.
As I got my last splinter, I think no more.
The splinter lies in my finger still today
waiting for that time when I can visit my
no more baby bird blue, shattered window, cobblestone step,
chipped wood, lonely chair, breezy, oak-shaded, playhouse once more.
