My aunt lived with her husband in a pretty little house that was dove gray with white trim. She always had flowers blooming in the front yard. This picture shows her on the front porch in a glamour-girl pose, a far cry from the houses she describes below.
by Veneta Donaldson
The somber, apathetic mien
Of houses old, untenanted;
The haunting look of wistfulness
As though their grief had ferreted
Each memory of lovely days
When joy and laughter were their own
Invariably bruise my heart
When I behold them, mute, alone.
The next poem in this series can be found here: Summer's Child.
This is part of a series of poems by Veneta Donaldson. A brief bio and the beginning of the series can be found here: Veneta Donaldson: A Poet in the Family.
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