The Old Home-Place

I can see the crooked boards
That line the outer walls.
I can smell the age-old scent
I hear the rooster call.

I like the lingering aroma
Of Grandma’s old cook stove,
As she prepares to bake her pies
Using apples from the grove.

I see her wipe her wrinkled hands
Upon the apron which she wore.
Then she stokes the dying coals,
To start the fire once more.

Grandpa, in his chair he sits,
As he whittles on some wood.
He loves to do creative things.
It makes him feel real good.

I hear the clanging of a bell;
Oh, the cows are coming up.
Grandpa folds his pocketknife
And empties his coffee cup.

He gives his tired, old body
A good, long, needed stretch.
To the pasture he slowly walks.
I know the cows he’ll fetch.

The old home-place still looks good.
It gives my heart a lift.
To see and smell the age-old rooms,
Is such a precious gift.

I even feel the spirits
Of the two dear, precious souls,
That together cared for home & hearth
And reached their well-planned goals.


Penned by:
Mary Walker-Butler
(Also know as “Lucy”)
Copyright 2004