In a wood centuries old,
A house holds captured a family.
Or more validly, a memory.
For only two remain.
Not as a consequence of death, but of life.
Children have grown, and so too grandchildren.
All blossomed into flowers vibrant.
But memory lasts eternal.
A creek murmurs remembered laughter.
Trees branded with names shadow playgrounds long forgotten.
Gardens still tended by old hands reminded of little hands helping.
One day children and grandchildren all grown will return and woods will swell in joy to welcome the hands that cared for it.
In a wood centuries old,
Everything holds capture a memory.
