Ghosthouse

The old brownstone's facade is crumbling;
a mere skeleton of the grandeur that used to be.
The weeds and brambles engulf it;
wild and unkempt.
The humming of bees and the scent of roses
heavy in the air.
It has been so long since the doorbell rang;
since the threshold was crossed by human form.
But if you listen carefully....
you can hear the laughter in the walls....
the stories whispered in your ear....
the opening and closing of doors no longer there.

~by Susan Tuttle