lying in the beds we've made

it's a blue

house, dark, almost plum

in color

set in the woods

down

the curve

of a driveway.

the gloom of old trees,

old wood,

stones,

rotted

things from when the children

were young.

the memories

sore

sore with betrayal.

the swing

rusted on a chain.

the garden

now

weeds.

so much of what remains here speaks

of better

times, better days.

you can retreat

and go

home again, but it's not

the same.

not the same.

the beds we've made, we

now lie in.