MEMORY
	
		It was not a real house,
		just a room with beds and dressers
		called the "little house"
		until we came, when it was named 
		for us.

		It stood in the side yard
		between the big house and the branch,
		two steps up and and a high sill.
		Stuffy inside, it held 
		the summer heat.

		I never minded that, but loved
		to lie in the dark 
		listening to night sounds,
		voices from the big house
		singing and laughing.
		Banjo music, sharp and fast - 
			. . . dear one
			the world
			is waiting for the sunrise. . .

		Later just the crickets
		sang on and on,
		the world is waiting, waiting.