The way back

Big empty square is the start,

The windows with their curtains tied

 By pink bows, look like half closed eyes.

One smaller rectangle in the middle,

 For the door, partly open, to let the air in.

Then a steep triangle set above,

 Colored, mostly inside the lines, crimson red.

The chimney, in the corner, still spits out

A swirling thin thread of gray puff.

Now the curving path that leads to the gate

With a slightly leaning back white picket fence.

I push the gate open, how could I refuse to accept

Its invitation, and step into the small yard.

The white cat that wraps around my legs

Moans softly to get my attention,

I give the swing a gentle push

And get lost in the well-known squeak

Some dead leaves crunch,

I am so close, so close to the open door,

I put my hand on the latch, and the door shut tight

How fool I was to believe that

There was never a way back.