There are times I've naught to do
but sit and review memories
and take in what comes into view
describing it with words that please.

Today I see this old wood floor
each plank's grain makes it unique
with extra wear before each door.
Beside the desk it's stained by ink.

And there's a board just down the hall
which only squeks in winter time.
In spring it stops squeaking at all.
Summer sees it silent as a mime.

It's scratched around the dining table
where chairs have slid for many years.
We still gather there when we are able
especially as autumn nears.

There are places faded to light dunn
where window shades are seldom drawn.
A spot where pets basked in the sun
sometimes awaiting coming dawn.

And in the kitchen dents and dings
where heavy pots and pans were dropped
along with plates and other things,
a rain of crashes still not stopped.

All these things and even more
are there for anyone to see.
For this is not just some mere floor
it's an index to home's history.