That's the Place

There is a painting in one of the departments in our office building that draws me into it.  Although it depicts a rural farmhouse in autumn, it doesn't matter the season.  That's the place where I want to be.  Every time I stop in that office, I gaze for a few minutes at the painting, thinking of how much I'd like to live in that house on that property.  There's nothing particularly remarkable about the house. It is old and white. The surroundings aren't remarkable either, just a yard subdued in late fall brown. Yet, I feel a kinship with the place and I want to move there...right now.  I can picture the house and grounds in every season.  Spring would be lovely with wildflowers in bloom and curtains flapping in the breeze through open windows. In summer, the grass would be green and the dandelions bright yellow.  There'd be a croquet set in the yard and some lemonade nearby. In winter, the gentle snow would envelop the white house and all would be tranquil.  Does the place exist or does it only exist in the painter's eye?  I'll likely never know, but I do know that if it existed, I'd knock on the door and ask if it was for sale.  And I'd live there happily ever after.  Yes, indeed.  That's the place.