A square of crayon red and bold

A square of crayon, red and bold,

a roof triangular, untold

the stories held inside its walls,

before the real house falls.

A plume of smoke, a crooked line,

from chimney small, a childhood sign.

One giant window, yellow bright,

spilling an impossible light.

No broken pane, no sagging sill,

just simple hope, standing still.

A perfect door, a happy square,

no lock, no fear, no empty stair.

We draw them straight, these simple forms,

before we know about the storms.

Before the paint begins to peel,

and what's inside, you start to feel.

The real ones lean, they gather dust,

they hold the rust of old mistrust.

But on that post, in childish hand,

a solid home, across the land.