the house on the hill

the house on the hill
is now just a memory of
solitude and peace and
healing.
the rhythm of the stream; the
cackles of the wild turkeys; the
hummingbirds; the porcupine, the
moose, outside the door; the deer at
the door. the leaves and the snow and the
rain pattering against
the kitchen windows. and the voice
of
the November winds, blustering. even on the
coldest days, there
was a warmth. it was special
and it was a bit magical
and it was a gift from someone otherwordly who
knew the
pain and heartache that needed
buffering and
solace. it was a special place;
it was a gentle place; it was an
honest
place. it was loved and
it
loved
back.
I think I shall never be again so
thankful for
a
shelter.