House
House
Each time I return
to my childhood house,
another wall is painted over.
The blues of my adolescence
fade to beige.
The nicked drywall fixed,
the dog nail patterns
that tattooed the floor
now flattened and shaved.
There are brittle boxes in the basement,
husks of dreams in the attic.
This unhoming is a long leave-taking,
a slight skiff dissolving into the fog.
Soon my parents will cross over
the Susquehanna River to us,
with their three dogs’ snouts turned
up toward a stranger air.
Soon the emerald green acre
left behind will shine
in ways we shall no longer remember,
renewed with another family’s luster. 
What a wonderful walk along the pangs of reminiscence through to the generous accommodation of lives young and old. There’s so much love here! Really touching.
I’d say you’ve done good art when you’ve evoked in your readers something of your sentiments with your word paintings, and they’re layered for a collaborative end your readers can have for themselves.