This poem comes from Autumn Leaves:

It stands on a hilltop,

Abandoned, forlorn,

Weathered and beaten,

Shingles missing and torn.

What tales would it tell,

If talk it could?

Peeling paint clings

Precariously to ancient wood.

Its old warped floors

Probably knew tiny feet

Of children born there,

So cuddly and sweet.

Conversations crossed over

The old kitchen table…

Voices filled with hope,

And arms that were able.

With a heart full of prayer,

A bucket full of sweat,

They worked the land

The harvest to get.

No one left now

To toil on the land.

Tombstones out back

Mark the passing of man.

The old house now stands

Ramshackle, alone —

Its boards bleached out

Like a skeleton of bones.

A prayer holds it together

From breaking at the seams —

A monument to man

And his broken dreams.