Farmhouse

The old farmhouse is tall and yellow,
Country kitchen with a big black stove,
Irons heating on the back.
Screened in porch that housed a shiny monster
Who somehow separated milk from cream. 
A pantry filled with gleaming
Jars of golden fruit,
A perfect place to hide and dream.

Grandpa's room, where I was ever welcome.
His massive rolltop desk with secret
Places safe within. 

Parlor splendid with flowered carpet,
Radio, piano, picture of a sailing ship,
The soft warm glow of coal-oil lamps.

Mama's bedroom soft and scented,
With a magic closet under stairs.
Sunflower quilt upon her bed,
Always books upon the shelf
Waiting to be read. 

Up the steep dark stairs I slept,
High up in the old farmhouse.
Where all the sounds of night are stronger.
Wind in the tall full cottonwoods
Swaying against the house. 
Lightning and thunder boomed
Hard across the roof.
It was marvelous and magic,
My room in the top of the old farmhouse. 

The yellow old house is gone now. 
Swept away by a winter fire.
One summer I went back,
The old cement cistern is yet there,
And the wind in the tall cottonwoods
​Still sounds the very same.