There once was a house
where the path ends;
I can still hear the laughter
of barefoot children
echoing through the wheat.
It was better then,
no chemicals to taint the grain,
and chickens ran free,
(and sometimes in
that house where an angry
mother would "shoo"
them with her broom.)
The rain was pure then,
and that house withstood
storms and winds that rolled
across the plain, and the
earth was quiet;
The only sounds
were insects and the
chirping of birds
flying from tree
to tree.
Deer nibbled on leaves
in the clearing,
and squirrels scurried
in fall to gather food.
It was better then,
and, sadly, the only
remains of that house are
a lone post standing
where the porch once stood,
and a pile of bricks
where a roaring fire
warmed us all.
copyright 10/22/01
Judith Labriola