Emma Murray

Independence Avenue

I love the white house
With the red door.
It’s not mine to claim anymore.
But you can’t blame the heart
For the filaments it casts
That connect us to our past.

I love the white picket fence,
With the creaky gate
And chipped paint.

I love the Emma Roses and
Showering among them in the middle of summer,
Just bare feet and cold hose water.

But now the door is a fresh green,
And the fence isn’t there.
And I’m the only one who seems aware,
That the only remnants of the garden
Are scattered thorns and weeds.
The house is changing, just like you and me.

Driving through the neighborhood today
Brings back memories
And ignites inquiries
About the people in these houses.
They are strangers now-
An unfortunate consequence that time allows.

My rational mind recites
A mantra “There’s good reason,”
But no. That excuse is never pleasing.   
That excuse is never pleasing.


Copyright 2002-2007 Student Publishing Program (SPP). Poetry and prose 2002-2007 by individual authors. Reprinted with permission. SPP developed and designed by Strong Bat Productions.