This old house, weathered and gray,

Sits hunched around us,

With its windmill

That 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 love

That once they thought had died 

But that now they plainly see 

To their amazement

Has only begun.