This old house, weathered and gray,
Sits hunched around us,
With its windmill
That no longer spins,
And its fallow fields surrounding.
And we sit, retired, in the porch swing,
Rocking ever after,
Grateful for the ruin of that
Which once we thought was so important.
And the children watch with wide eyes
From the parlor window,
And wonder at the love
That once they thought had died
But that now they plainly see
To their amazement
Has only begun.
