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