Written by Alice Donatelli
The farm house stands upon a hill,
My poems are protected by © copyright © laws and can't not be
it's old and tatterd I see.
What use to be a place called home,
is just a memory.
Mother raised eight children there,
life was hard back then.
But that old farm house kept us warm,
for a hard working family of ten.
We would all get up at 4 a.m.
to do our chours and such.
The cold wind made our faces freeze,
but it didn't bother us much.
Papa was always chopping wood,
to keep the family warm.
And that old wind would howl outside,
kicking up a storm.
The kids always slept four in a bed,
a few blankets were all we had.
But we never complained about a thing,
because our faith over came the bad.
Mother would wash the wooden floors,
with a scrub brush , down on her knees.
And the kids would be outside,
picking apples off the trees.
Momma and papa both passed on,
and the kids are all grown too.
But we'll never forget that old farm house,
that saw a family through.
used with out my permission.
