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An old man returned to the rustic cabin where he was born.
There it stood midst a grove of pines, tumble-down, forlorn.
The home he loved in his youth now stood in a shambles,
Nearly overgrown with creeping vines and thorny brambles.

The horseshoe over the door was still there, albeit a bit askew.
Rusty hinges protested as he opened the door and ventured thro'.
He was overwhelmed by emotion as he recalled his family cast,
The good times, the bad times, distant shadows of the past.

He could see his dear old Dad burdened with years of toil,
As he strove to feed his family on forty-acres of stony soil.
He never aspired to accrue any transient worldly treasure.
His love for God and his family was ever his only pleasure.

He learned at his Mother's knee to shun all evil and do good.
How he longed once again to embrace her, if he only could.
He recalled Christmases, tho' often love was all she could give,
And snuggling 'neath her cozy quilts, times he yearned to relive.

He knelt by the hearth, there he sensed his old dog, Champ,
Content, while a boy lay reading by the glow of a coal oil lamp.
The old man closed the sagging door and muttering a last goodbye,
Slowly walked away, cherishing fond memories with a pensive sigh.

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)

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