Our old house is one to mourn.
Termites, holding hands, held the boards together
but they didn't keep out ornery weather.
A drizzle and a drip here,
icicles glist'ning on walls . . .
so close to nature that it's almost camping.

Our old house . . . where I was born
has its' own beauty--rustic, but love dwelled there;
sometimes hunger within was quite hard to bear.
We didn't have crumbs to spare
but we weren't alone . . . He cared.
His presence in our lives was everywhere.

Our old house holds sweet mem'ries:
Dad spreading cement, Ma going into labor;
the friendly, home-spun tales of ev'ry neighbor.
When Dad died, neighbors brought food . . .
but we had a somber mood.
When we ate, every morsel was savored.

Our old house is etched inside.
Too many times it slipped off the brick footing;
we had no funds for leaving or moving.
Neighbors would help us move bricks
but, soon, it couldn't be fixed.
As each board was removed, we began mourning.

Our old house died quite slowly.
It saw so many tears, the floor boards were warped;
the love inside would many mansions dwarf.
Those walls had a history,
some remained a mystery.
That home had a soul and it's been rewarded.

Our old house sits in heaven.