Poetry Friday

I have been doing a lot of reflecting and poetry writing. This week I had the privilege to meet up with some old friends--ones whom I've know for my entire 30 years of living. It conjured up some memories--very fond ones, I might add--of my childhood in Ashland, Kentucky. I wrote this poem about my first house, and what it was like to go back.

I stare at the familiar window—
it was once mine.
From there I could see the large oak,
the wide garden dotted with seedlings
waiting for summer.

From that windowsill I peered into the darkness
looking for forest monsters lurking
waiting for me to turn the
light out.
It was the first room I called my own.

From that window, I stared off into the unknown

and dreamed my dreams.

I stare at the window—
no longer familiar,
no longer mine.
It belongs to someone else,
a boy.
The old oak seems small,

the garden is a field of tall weeds
choking out the
history of vegetables.

From that windowsill,
he probably watches bugs crawl
on the tree,
and imagines slaying dragons
in the woods.

But I don’t know what dreams
waft from that window.

It doesn’t belong to me anymore.

The round up is at Shaken & Stirred this week.