Winter Writings: Day 23

The lot sits vacant
filled with trash tossed
by uncaring minds.
"Will build to suit"
the sign proclaims.
Yet judging from the gnarled trees
that frame the ghosted square,
a foundation once anchored
memories here.
If you listen closely,
you can hear
the old house still sighs
in the wind, with the voices
that called this home.
The windmill whining in a stray breeze
The laundry flapping its silly dance
and from the frayed rope in the old tree,
comes the laughter of children,
shrill with excitement,
as they swing higher and higher
trying to reach the moon.
And old dogs lay in the long grass
and dream the twitching dreams
of puppies chasing their tails.
And just over there,
where roses once carefully tended,
grow with wild abandon,
the voices of the women sing
of home, and hopes and cherry pie
and by the fence, the men
worry the weather and the price of beef.
Can you not see?
This lot is full of memories.
There is no room for your building here.