by James W. Spain, II
I live in a home
in a small New England village.
Not a famous home,
George Washington never slept here.
It is a very old home
made with post and beam and square cut nails
from a bygone era.
The family that built this house
over a hundred year ago
did not go very far,
just down the road to the family cemetery.
I visit them sometimes
say a prayer and leave some flowers at the grave.
I can still sense the past in this house,
the joy, love and sorrow,
holidays from the past and
funerals in the front parlor.
As I gaze out to the cemetery I am looking through the same
old swirled glass with bubbles that they looked through.
Looking at the same surroundings
that first family looked at.
Not many things have changed;
History repeats itself…