by Peter A. DePergola II

I knew the place before my name,
Its halls were bright, its windows wide;
My mother’s keys unlocked its frame,
I followed closely at her side.

I watched her walk from bed to bed,
A steady hand, a voice of calm;
I thought, Someday I’ll serve instead,
And make this house my life, my psalm.

The years went on, and so did I,
I found my work where sorrows meet—
To help a family reason why,
To give the lost a steady seat.

My children cried their first cries here,
My roots sank deep into its ground;
The work was heavy, never clear,
But gift was greater than the pound.

It was my house, or so I thought—
A home of stone, a circle round;
The labor done, the lessons taught,
A faithful life in one place bound.

But houses change though beams stand tall,
Their doors swing shut, their voices thin;
No fault was mine, no shame, no fall—
Yet still I found no way back in.

The rooms go on with other hands,
The windows glow with other eyes;
I walk outside the darkened lands,
A ghost that lingers where it tries.

And yet the road bends past the gate,
The loss is sharp, the night is long;
But somewhere else another waits,
A house in need of care and song.

My steps move on, my roots will grow,
This place was part, but not the whole;
I’ll find again a home to sow—
Another ground to keep my soul.