The Lavender Hearth

 

The Lavender Hearth

This house does not announce itself.
It waits
Purple walls softened by time,
As if the color learned how to breathe.

Smoke curls lazily from the chimney,
Not in haste,
But like a thought remembered
And finally let go.

Windows blink open with patience,
Watching gardens grow crooked and kind.
Pumpkins rest where laughter once lingered,
And herbs lean close, sharing old secrets.

The door knows every hand that touched it
Cold fingers, hopeful ones, tired ones too.
It opens anyway.
It always does.

Stone paths lead nowhere important,
And everywhere that matters.
A fire burns low beside the road,
Not to warn
But to welcome.

This is not a house built for grandeur.
It is built for return.
For warm bread, quiet evenings,
And the soft courage it takes
To stay.