Farmhouse at End of Day

This old house, weathered and gray,Sits hunched around us,With its windmillThat no longer spins,And its fallow fields surrounding.And we sit, retired, in the porch swing,Rocking ever after, Grateful for the ruin of that Which once we thought was so important.And the children watch with wide eyes From the parlor window,And wonder at the loveThat once they thought had died But that now they plainly see To their amazementHas only begun.