Little houses lined up in rows,
and snow;
the snow kept coming that winter, and spring.
It even snowed in May.

The trees trees are just branches, the bushes just twigs,
and everything is weighted by the white blanket of winter.

The sky is dark. The hills are dark. The winter was dark.

But the houses, they come in every color;
red, yellow, blue, green, teal, orange – they’re all there.

The power lines run through them all, supposedly keeping them alive,
though there is no light.
There won’t be until spring at best.

These houses are made for gardens,
and without the sunshine, there are no occupants.

Just empty little houses, lined up in rows.

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