The House

The sky is clear, but it isn't blue, it's somehow a varying shade of gray mixed in with white that seems as if you could almost see through, to what might be above.
A November day that cannot make up its mind.
It's 5 past three in the afternoon as it comes into view.
The house.
White picket fence, a lush garden behind, tended to with love but allowed the freedom to expand.
The air feels cold
You peer inside
The porch and you can see into the kitchen.
Jam and homemade soup.  
Rocking chairs, lace curtains, two dogs.
The barn to the side, a horse and chickens.
The door open, welcoming in the cold, unafraid.
The house is unafraid.
It's warmed from something I want to touch.
In it exists everything I lost, and everything I have never found.
If only I could walk inside.
The house
It exists in another realm, a separate level of reality that I can't set foot on.
And I want it.
It's a bright brilliant blue, a color that reminds you of babies and Morning Glories in full bloom.
A purple trim that seems joyous and at the same time subdued.
Something that is already stated so it doesn't steal the show.
The barn, red and old, small and filled with items that contain lifetimes, that can fix things, a place that can hold things, and the answers to everything.
I drive by slowly, taking it in as I do every day.
Wondering what would happen if I just walked in.
I took a picture one day, to hold on to and remember.
The house, it greets me in my dreams.  In layers.  I feel it in layers.  I know it inside and out, but only when I sleep.
I want to wake in it, but I never do.
And I drive, slowly, wondering, believing in everything I think it holds.
And isn't that the first step?