Seven generations walked through your door,
Which stood so strong & always welcomed in.
You said goodbye when boys headed to war,
Your kitchen always busy as a bee.
Two soldiers lost to battles they can't win.
With canning, baking apple crumble cake
The table decked with riches to partake.
Stone hearth, a place for warmth and drink some tea.
The living room a place to sit and chat,
With pictures hanging for one hundred years.
With bassinet where ev'ry child did lie.
A chair still sits where ancestors once sat.
This room for laughter and at times for tears.
Your nursery where many babies grew,
The paint would change from pink to blue.
You watched the aging gently rock.
A place where time would always quickly fly.
The floors within have each child's first walk,
Their worn out wood drowned many times with stain.
Your children now all scattered far and wide.
You've heard and felt the tapping of a cane.
I stand and listen in your sacred halls
And feel that you're a part of everyone.
Each breath we took embedded in your walls,
Old house of stone your warmth embraces me,
The house my children grew up in.
You still stand proud for all the to see,
The thoughts of you, sweet memories.
~by Brenda Meier-Hans