by Caroline Wolfe
There is a white house past the fork in the road
You must keep going straight.
Naked trees lead the way, so gray yet so great
Will then be white after it has snowed.
Though the distance from the rest can make my love for it implode,
I knew living here was fate.
I realize this when I arrive back at eight,
even when homework is one heavy load.
On rainy days we will be prepared
And during the Blair blues when it feels like a dome
And when we are tested by the icy hill not to become impaired.
There are times where we feel so stressed we just want to roam
But at the end of the day we never have despair
For the white house past the fork in the road is home away from home.
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