I sit,
looking up the road,
to the place,
where I was born;
The house is
no longer there.
Another family,
enjoys the space,
and the fresh air;
I lived,loved,
and played,
on that land.
I fished the brook,
sat up in a deer stand,
we cut wood,
rank it in a shed,
with our dad,
on that land.
The wood would dry,
and soon burn,
in the old stove,
to cook our food,
and keep our bones warm.
I miss that old home,
living with mom and dad,
and two brothers,
what special lads.
Thank you Father,
for that home,
and thanks for my brothers,
and the best mom and dad.
~ Winston Staples
