Huddled in hills
in western Pennsylvania
sat a little pink house
(sometimes yellow, red or white)
by Charlie the Oak Tree
in a neighborhood where a creek
and a small road ran through,
by the name of Shannon, our name.
Mostly relatives
were scatted about
some longtime friends, too,
My four sisters and I
rarely stayed indoors
climbing trees, sled riding,
exploring the woods,
playing pretend games
after all the old shows,
eating fruits from trees, bushes
and even out of the gardens.
We were mad when
a new neighbor moved in a mobile home
and wiped out the best blackberry patch.
Pappap sold the land bit by bit
and house poppped up all over
hidden in the summer by the foliage
but in the winter we saw them encroaching.
The little road became busier
until kids no longer played on it like we did
when we needed a smooth, flat place.
We grew up and left and the pine trees
took over the yard, hiding the little house
until it was abused by renters and torn down.
But still standing tall is the Oak Tree, Charlie.
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