My Favorite Place,
is not an extravagant place,
it is not somewhere that everyone knows.

I love the smell of the kitchen,
where love meets and laughter is shared.
The memories are always strong and never fade.
I love the existence of everyone there.

The atmosphere of farms and nature could melt your heart.
Prettier than a picture on a fall day.
Leaves blowing through the air,
as we sit on the porch waiting for the food to be eaten.

Smiles brighter than the sun,
there would be never ending subjects to discuss.
Pumpkins everywhere and spice sprayed continously.
Kids running constantly trying to not break anything.
Not breaking something rarely occurs.

Grandpa and Grandma worked for everything on that farm.
Machinery sitting outside waiting for the next day to be used.
Buildings and buns so faded-
seeming like they have witnessed every hardship too.
A clothesline stands there as a symbol of proudness my Grandparents share.

I reminisce on the memories of Great-Grandma's house being there,
seemed like yesterday it was removed.
How blessed am I to have her watching over me.

That old-rusted mailbox that used to be,
reminds me of the races we had, ending there,
or the time waited there for the mailman to give us a sucker.
That memorable rusty mailbox turned into a John Deere one.

The old pins that were once used for hogs,
will remind me of all the squeals heard.
The cows would line up at the fence waiting to be heard,
or just to be talked too.

Grandma and Grandpa's house will never be a faded memory.

-KB