At the center of the farm sits the little white house. 
Chipped paint and broken stairs of faded past 
now make a home fit only for a mouse 
that scurries through the fields, unhindered and unseen, free at last. 

The afternoon sun blankets the farm in its warm light, 
and the plants reach towards the sky to meet it. 
The oak tree stands tall, testament to the years of wisdom and might. 
Its untrimmed branches shade the grass in its wide embrace. 
  
Peaceful silence stretches across the farm. 
If you listen closely you might catch the echoes of life, 
laughter from children at the old farmer’s charm. 
The flowers beneath the kitchen window still hum old songs of his wife.    
 
On the door of the house is a bright pink paper, now. 
It is ripped away by the blowing wind, stripped of worth, 
and dancing wildly through the air before taking its final bow. 
The house is no one’s now, but the farm is the earth’s. 

Cayla Christopher plans to graduate from SIUE with a degree in English. The plan after that is undetermined, but hopefully it’ll continue to be an adventure worth writing about.