I soak in the tropical ambience of the desiccated South,

Sweat immersed and an unpleasantly dry mouth.

Ranwood, makes the grueling excursion all the worthwhile

Down to the nine hundredth and ninety sixth mile.

A home construed in nonconforming design,

An estate, I am proud to call mine.

This abode, erected not for frill,

None to impress, no shoes to fill

But rather to entice

With riches surpassing the asking price.

No masonry doors, stone lintels, or coffered ceiling panels

But design yet worthy of chronicle in the annals.

Palm trees and cacti enshrouding the gates,

And an everlasting supply of pantry cates.

The embodiment of a refuge for all,

A ‘safe haven’ one might call.

A yard steeped with fauna and flora,

Artemis bless’d us with nature’s plethora.

Hoofed creatures inveigled in,

As though the Ark was therein.

But so revered is this place,

Even the seraphim himself would be cowed to grace.

Doors ajar year round,

With guests incessantly pouring inbound.

Fare not profuse,

But greater than most agrarians could ever produce

Even in the most protracted, backbreaking Herculean labor,

Worthy of envy from each and every neighbor.

Food ever so pleasing

And the ambiance most appeasing.

Pictorial sunshine estate,

None other entity could ever equate.

All can be accredited to the possessor of the abode,

Who’s worked and toiled till outwardly showed.

Gardening, cleaning, and cooking alike

Chores that others may otherwise dislike

But mama in such tasks finds bountiful joy,

Much as a child in a brand new toy.

The house though modest in form,

Holds a warmth and cordiality that escapes the norm.

When the frosty winter months do come,

And turn everything frozen and numb,

The home intact remains,

And in fact, beauty it gains.

The holiday season drawing in its jolly mood,

Ornamentation and still more food,

Adding allure to an already enrapturing place,

That in my depiction I feel I deface.

I may refer to this home as mine,

But it is my mother to whom all the credit I do consign.