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The House my Father Built
I was raised inside the house my father built;
Could he know with every nail he hammered in
And every door he hung in place,
How many years of love that sturdy house would hold?
Could he know how many little hands and knees
Would crawl from room to room,
Or how fast toddler feet could climb the stairs
As if, it was a carpet mountain waiting to ascend?
Could he know the flesh that sweat inside his flannel shirt
And callused hands that measured 2x4/'/s to cut,
Would build a house where morning smiles could shine
And evening eyes could rest beneath the moon lit roof?
Could he know how many memories would start in there;
From cradles, to bunk-beds used until they broke,
From homemade high-chairs and color crayon art upon the walls,
To cozy winter fires and bedtime stories read?
Does he know now, that the bench he built inside that house,
Where he sat to free his feet from well-worn boots,
Speaks just like the walls, windows and roof
Of all the hard work that it took
To create the house my father built?
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