The doors are always closed, the curtains always drawn
An entire winter's snow and ice the only company it keeps
There are no footprints in the snow; no neat little walkway shoveled to the front door
Yet a small plume of air escapes somewhere near the bottom of the chimney
Almost reminiscent of an old man's breath on a chilly morning
Is the old house haunted?
Or does she merely hold on to memories from a long time ago.
