This little house on a quiet street,
where we were children and free.
That yard that could be the moon
or the jungle or the palace for you,
and the deep, deep, black woods
where every monster did dwell.
Older, I took your hand, to the creek,
past the monsters that had grown quiet
and where we never dared to go before.
The soft, springtime sun through leaves
that cast a veil of shadows on your face.
My heart raced and raced and howled.
Something I thought meant to be,
before the war and before that night.
Cuddling on the porch swing, saying
we’d make feet for children’ stockings,
and on a quiet street, in a little house
we’d build our own little paradise.
This little house, on a quiet street,
a sweet honey that hurts the heart.
I remember a sweet time with you.
A shard of it lingers, even now,
and I cherish it like a child so afraid.
I don’t want to lose the light,
not after all I went through.