My House

My house is in a beautiful scene,

secluded but surrounded by the bright colors

that accompany the maturity of life.

The trees have developed the flavors of their experience.

They are not as full and green

with the lushness of their youth.

They are now proven

and emanate with the character

of the seasons of their growth.

Their leaves drop

like strands of hair thinning from their heads,

each fallen leaf sent out to fertilize

the ground that they inhabit,

hopefully for the joy of children

that would pile them up to play

in the bright softness they developed to share

for the joy of the future generation.

But there are no children in my house.

There aren’t even any rooms for them,

as if to suggest that while the youth

are welcome to visit

and enjoy the seasonings

that surround my old house,

it isn’t meant for the long stays

that are necessary for raising them.

My house is green.

A dark shade, but not dim,

rather there is a bright tint

to its rich, earthy color

that suggest it’s satisfied

with its existence

that stands in complementary contrast

with the fiery landscape

of red and orange and yellow

of its vibrant surroundings.

My house has a bright white trim

that encases, a maroon red door,

welcoming all who wish to enter,

should you choose to make the journey

down the packed dirt path

far from the visibility

of a main thoroughfare.

Inside you will find simple furnishings.

An unassuming chair

and a live edge wood bench

that honors the grain of the tree

that’s long lived years gave of itself

to lend its life

to produce this unassuming piece of furniture.

Beside it is a similar textured wood chest.

You might describe it as a hope chest,

but instead of being filled

with items collected

in anticipation of the future

it contains curated memories

of only the most precious moments

that couldn’t possibly be purged.

Perhaps the hope in this chest

is that one day someone will open it

and discover new notions

that reassess their preconceptions

of its owner.

If you walk over the Mongolian pattern rug

that cushions and insulates the coldness

that seeks to permeate the slats

of the hardwood floors,

you will find a secret door.

Inside that door is an empty closet

lined with raw cedar shiplap

and an unused rod.

Consistent with the minimalistic style

of the home

there is no excess stored

in this hidden room.

It’s as if long ago any item that no longer served the inhabitant was let go

and any previously stored shame has been unburdened,

leaving room only for the intricate webs woven by its eight-legged roommates.

My house is full of windows,

allowing in all the light

that the serene landscape permits,

exposing the melody

of dust particles

that dance in the rays

that exude the sun’s warmth.

At the back of the house

there is another door

that shares the bright white

of the home trim,

radiating back the warm light

into the simple space.

With the exception

of its rough

but solid and functional

raw wood shingled roof

that is all there is to my house.

Are you lonely in this house

you may ask.

Perhaps at times,

but that was the price

to finally find peace.

— Jesse Lee

11/12/2025