Perspective

Doorknobs aged with the fingerprints of four generations

Windows shrouded in the shadows of our ancestors
Shingles trembling with the screams of the past
This ancient hut still stands
Despite the detrimental storms it has weathered.

It stands as a beacon amidst the identical condos surrounding.

A warm glow emanates from within its hallowed halls,
Unique against the harsh fluorescents of the clones.

The front lawn is browned from drought,

The gutters rusted from decades of fallen tears,
The crusted remainder of foliage litters the porch.
The fallen shack is an abomination
To the eyes of an outsider.

But peer into a knot hole in the peeling fence,

And you will find a lush meadow
Tranquil against the swaying willow
Serene against the koi circling the pond.
You will find no ragweed, nor crabgrass, nor thistles,
Nor secrets of any kind.

This cottage wears no mask,

No kaleidoscope other than the one you thrust upon it.