House Next Door
I often wonder,
Who lives in the house next door?
What happens behind its walls?
What paths did they explore?
Could it be a young mother
Seeking calm in fleeting peace,
While her infant finally lay sleeping
After nights that never cease?
Or a young father, battle-weary,
Stretched out on the floor to rest
After a work day's labor,
Needing nourishment, no less.
Perhaps someone smiles, taps and sings,
Dancing through the day's routine
To music that lifts and enlivens
Drudgery into cheerful scene.
Or a youth wearing headphones,
Lost in noise, a wild selection,
Surrounded by electronic stimulation,
Chasing connection through disconnection.
Perhaps screens - phone, TV, laptop
Clutter counters, order's place.
Endless gadgets, tools of chaos
Stealing calm from every space.
Maybe a young child,
With toys strewn across the floor,
Propped by dreams, resisting sleep,
In their rumpled bed once more.
Could there be someone gifted,
Extraordinary or famous,
Seeking refuge, a quiet place,
Or a creator, inventor, a genius?
There might be one in mourning,
Lost to grief or deep sorrow,
Needing solace or comfort,
Pleading for a brighter tomorrow?
Or perhaps it's someone uncertain
Of who they are, shy and unsure,
Lacking courage to step or explore
Outside their own front door -
Maybe a soul, sin-burdened
With pain or regrets untold,
Seeking escape or forgiveness -
A wrestling and restless soul.
Or one of fragile strength,
Whose limbs need quiet rest,
After years of service in a
World of constant press and duress.
I see them kneel at long day's end,
Giving thanks to Heaven's friend.
Showing love with a tap, hug or kiss,
Holding close life's tenderness.
Peering through their windows
And prying open more,
I pause and suddenly realize -
I'm the house next door.
Janice Harten
22 Jun 2024
