I wrote this about my parents farmhouse and what it was like growing up.
The old farm house sits off the road where no one has seen and no one knows. The floors creak with every step, the doors squeak with opening breath.
The cellar cold and dark beneath, the rooms above so bright and gleam.
Love and laughter have filled these halls, so many secrets behind these walls.
Sometimes tears would fall, but the floors beneath would catch them all.
The porch light was always lit so we could find our way home again.
The old wood stove would burn all night and have glowing ashes in the morning light.
Coffee filled the morning air and birds would sing without a care.
A gentle breeze would sometimes blow through the small cracks around the windows.
Although the old house had its faults it would always be home to all who saw, to all who found, and to all that walked in the old farm house that sits off the road where no one has seen and no one knows.