Untouched

It’s the crackle of the flames,
and the shadows they cast upon the walls.
It’s the creak and the squeal of the furnace,
struggling to make its way all the way through.

It’s the clutter of the photographs plastered,
hiding the true color of the wall beneath.
It’s the weed of a tree cornered,
trying to envelop as much space as it can.

It’s the colossal size of a dog bed,
overcome with fur and crumbs.
It’s the glossy steep wooden stairs,
enough to make you invest in each step.

It’s the splintered porch always overlooking,
unfazed by a yard turning into a swamp.
It’s the wet breeze from the kitchen door,
letting in a faint mist mixed with smoky ashes.

It’s the sizzling from the cast iron pan,
with sparks shooting out from within.
It’s the tightly bound sunflowers,
resting untouched on the granite countertop.