House in the Country

It was hardly a gingerbread house.
We knew that.
Only the roof was gingerbread colour.
And the old woman living there
was no more a witch
than the raindrops
hanging
from the trees
were really diamonds.
We knew that.
Even though
she said that they were.
And she gave us candy bars.
Surely no witch would be so kind
to children who were not lost.

But later
we watched them dig up her garden
and smelled the flesh
and saw the bones.
Now we know.
We knew nothing
before.

And after nature reclaimed its space
the house stands empty,
and no one else remembers
an old woman.
Still,
only
the raindrops remain
frozen in time
hard
as diamonds
soft as tears.
Still, we don’t know why.