I sometimes wander past the house where we used to live.

I park across the road and contemplate

the things we used to do.

As much as I stare I cannot see within

and even if I could

I’d only see the strangers who occupy our house.

I wonder if deep into the night

our voices from years ago

Might penetrate the years

and our echo may softly rebound

Across the walls we used to own.

Happiness and laughter,

Sadness and tears,

all the things that happen

to people across the years.

It’s a little disappointing that the new owners seemed to see fit

to chop down my apple tree, the one I grew from a pip.

Of course now our roles are reversed:

Those who were once strangers are now familiar faces here

and I am now estranged

From all the things I once held dear.