First House on the Left

There is a house on a hill
One little corner where time has stood still
And as though caught in some pendulum swing
I try to go, but home pulls me back in

Centuries passed through this door
The stories we write have been told here before
All of their voices still breathe in these walls
It’s as though things never change here at all

Oh is this the boat made of old bricks and mortar
That’s kept us afloat as we sail through the years?
Or is this the light that shines from the shoreline?
The port where we know we can rest?
Or is it just the first house on the left?

The garden tells most of the tales
With fragments of china, old horseshoes, and nails
Flower seeds planted by hands gone before
Asleep through the winter then blooming once more

And is this where they slept on the way to the jail?
Or the shop where the lady had sweeties for sale?
Or is this just the nest that was emptied by war?
Or the room where the next generation was born?

Oh is this the boat made of old bricks and mortar
That’s kept us afloat as we sail through the years?
Or is this the light that shines from the shoreline?
Pushing us out and then pulling us in
Or is it the rocks, so firm and unchanging?
Is it the port where we know we can rest?
Or is it just the first house on the left?