I rode my horse the other
day up to the homestead where I was born,
Its been more than sixteen years since I was there.
The old water drills still showed in the garden lot, and
The old plank across the ditch was bended more than e'er.
The tall sunflowers planted by my mother
seemed less tall,
Though still growing near, a thought went back of when we used to play
Underneath their bended heads each day. The hill we used to slide upon
Had slowly worn away, but it took just as much strength,
to climb to its top as it did on an earlier day.
The rocks were round the corner of the cabin,
although the logs were hauled away.
And it seemed as though the cabin was still there.
Then I turned my horse and slowly with my sleeve, brushed away each tear.
Harry Hicks, 1946