Whispers Through the Land // P O E T R Y

A few months ago, I passed an old house long since forgotten while driving to church.
It got me thinking about the old house down by the river at my Grandpa's ranch. How I always loved to dream what it looked like when it was first built, who built it, and why. Did they like living far in the Oregon mountains? Or was it a lonely life? Were they young? Old? Did children play near the river's bed? Who planted the lone tree? I did my best to put my questions down:

 Whispers Through the Land

 Deep in the valley, over the hill and near the river blue

  A little house stands asleep; a little house so true
Her walls are aged with color, her doors no longer stand
 Silently her presence whispers her memories to the land

 

Oh, if she could talk, the stories she would say!
Of those people who came before in days gone away
Oh walls. what did you see all that time ago?
Did you see days of laughter? Or was it days of woe?

Did you hear cries of joy as a new babe was born?

Did you see the tears of sadness in an old mans eyes so worn?

Oh, walls, what would you say if only you could?

What would your windows whisper? Your floors of polished wood?

No one loves you any longer, no one fills your rooms

And yet your empty halls seem to whisper gentle croons

Was it a young man who built you for his family so dear?

Or was it a lonely man and woman who came alone with a tear?

Oh, walls if you could talk, what would you share?

Your windows of broken glass, your doors of gentle ware

Empty and alone you stand; your windows twinkling a tear

Silently to the land you whisper your secrets that no ear can hear
- Felicity Estola