Gabled roof faded red to gray,
tiled moss curled
against a century of winds
whistling to get in.. Thyme
and vines compete to claim their space.
Trod bare from barn to kitchen door
the yard wears its foot print paths
like welcome mats.
My mother’s grandmother
once tended wood-fed fires
that warmed this hearth and hearts
for miles around. I take a faded apron down
from hand hewn wooden hook, begin again
to knead the dough, to bake the bread,
to tend the fires that light our lives
and make this house a home.