I know why I love my house,
Though it's not the least bit grand,
I can sit here in my favorite chair,
And see my life first hand.
I look about my tidy room,
At the objects of my heart,
Each item very meaningful,
Of my life ... a valued part.
Upon the wall across from me,
A hand-carved wooden plaque,
A warm, rich, brown patina,
A silhouetted cat.
A treasure bequeathed to me,
By a close friend, who has died,
With sadness I look upon it,
And recall her at my side.
To its right ... a tiny clock,
Which no longer marks the time,
Once it ticked most happily,
And laughed with tinkling chimes.
The chimes, too, no longer work,
The mechanism's old,
But that clock is irreplaceable,
I would not trade it for pure gold.
It takes me back in time,
To many years ago,
I watched him hang it on the wall,
Oh, how I miss him so.
Next to it, a weather station,
Which never was set right,
Barometer and thermometer,
Both Centigrade and Fahrenheit.
It was great ... he said he'd make it run,
That it would diagnose the weather,
It became a major project,
We fooled with that thing together.
And to this day, it's never worked,
But I don't really care,
I just know I love that piece,
And I want it hanging there.
On the other wall, a what-not shelf,
Which I bought years ago,
It holds a lot of little things,
Each with backgrounds that I know.
They're meaningless to someone else,
Someday they'll just be trash,
But for now, they are my treasure,
And I take much pleasure in their past.
A porcelain egg, hand-painted,
Protected under glass,
A memento from a party,
Of a friend, who now has passed.
A small ceramic dog,
Stands next to my pretty egg,
A leftover from childhood,
Full-balanced on three legs.
A teak napkin ring from Africa,
A molded candle never lit,
An ashtray crafted by a child,
A pink seashell next to it.
Two angel figurines are next,
One had a broken wing,
He mended it with glue for me,
And I love that crooked thing.
There is a hand-made doll of lace,
A recent acquisition,
At this gift I was so touched,
I gave it center, top position.
There are pictures; there are paintings,
From donors long since gone,
But while they hang upon my wall,
Those old memories stay strong.
Every object in my view,
Some, secret mysteries.
All the other numerous things ...
Just dust collectors, I suppose,
But they are who I am to me,
The me, nobody knows.
So when the good Lord calls me home,
And my relatives come in to sort,
I'm sure they'll be disappointed,
And will feel they've come up short.
They won't recognize my wealth,
They can't convert my past to cash,
My true net worth is in God's hands,
His evaluation ... best and last.