Poetry

It sits empty and sad
having gone from good to bad,
where once there were people
now there is only a vacant steeple,
the church is bare, except for a few;
there's not much left, only the morning dew.
Like so many places across this land
this old whistle stop sits closed and broken down.
Where once as children we played, catching fireflies
in Mason jars, and dancing with sparklers in the front yard,
now the homes are closed and falling in,
the stores and movie and grocery too
stand bare and empty with nothing left to do,
and down the street there is hardly a trace,
of the old school, so that we wouldn't recognize the place.
We called this old whistle stop home
and memories we still keep,
every time the freight passes it makes us leap
fireflies still light the nighttime summer sky
and millions of stars still live close by.
So even if the train doesn't stop any more,
and all that is left is its' mournful whistle;
home it is, and home it will be,
no matter if there is nothing left for us to see.