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The old accordion squeezes out,
A tune of polka beat,
Its buttons worn from years of play,
Make melodies complete.
The squeeze box plays for dancing feet,
Of those who still recall,
An old accordion playing songs,
That echo through the hall.
The rooster crows at break of day,
His voice rings far and wide,
He's proud to herald morning light,
With nature as his guide.
The chickens cluck and peck the ground,
The farm begins to wake,
A rooster crows to start the day,
A traditional song to make.
The campground sits beneath the stars,
Where constellations bright,
The Big Dipper guides our way,
Through铺 from our campsite light.
The wood smoke rises to the sky,
The fire crackles low,
Campground stars above our heads,
Make darkness glow.
The apple orchard in the fall,
Is everyone's delight,
The leaves turn red and orange bright,
A painter's palette sight.
The cider fresh from pressing apples,
The donuts hot and sweet,
An apple orchard in autumn,
Is fall's delicious treat.
The wind blows through the wheat field,
Making waves like sea,
The amber stalks bend gracefully,
As far as eyes can see.
The harvest time is almost here,
The wheat so golden tall,
A wind through wheat is summer's gold,
That feeds both great and small.
The old cash register rings so loud,
With keys that jangle clear,
It counted pennies, nickels, dimes,
For all the goods stored here.
The drawer slides with mechanical click,
The totals all added right,
An old cash register ring,
Marked each transaction tight.
I peer through the telescope,
At craters on the moon,
The Milky Way stretches across,
Like a river's tune.
The stars are twinkling far away,
Since billions of years ago,
Through telescope we see the past,
A cosmic light to show.
The honey bee buzzes round the hive,
His stripes of yellow black,
He gathers nectar from each flower,
And builds his honeycomb stack.
The colony works all summer long,
To fill their golden store,
A honey bee is busy bee,
Who crafts the honey more.
I fill the watering can,
To help my garden grow,
Each flower stem and vegetable,
Needs water's gentle flow.
The sprinkler head sprays droplets fine,
Like summer rain so sweet,
A watering can does its job,
To make the garden complete.
The stepping stones across the pond,
Lead to the garden gate,
Each stone worn smooth by feet that walked,
And weather turned to slate.
I hop from stone to stone with care,
To avoid the lily pads,
Stepping stones across the pond,
Are paths my童年 once had.
The cottage door is painted red,
With brass knocker worn,
Welcome mat says come on in,
And rest from wind that's blown.
Inside the fire crackles warm,
The tea pot whistles shrill,
A cottage door that welcomes all,
To find their peace and will.
I toss a coin into the well,
A wish forms in my mind,
The water ripples soft and deep,
Where lost hopes go to find.
The wishing well stands in the square,
Where lovers stop and pray,
For wishes made on coins so bright,
Sometimes come true someday.
The hay loft is my secret spot,
Where spiders make their web,
I hide among the golden bales,
Where no one dares to tread.
The barn cats prowl the boards below,
The horses whinny near,
A hay loft hideaway for me,
Where childhood memories appear.
We set the sail at sunset glow,
The horizon burns so red,
The breeze carries us out to sea,
Where ancient sailors fled.
The compass spins but we don't care,
Our hearts know where we'll roam,
A sunset sail on waters fair,
Takes us far from home.
She's the blacksmith's daughter fair,
With soot upon her cheek,
She tends the forge while father works,
Her strength no one can speak.
I love her like the iron hot,
That shapes the horseshoe firm,
The blacksmith's daughter works so hard,
Her spirit like a worm.
The old fence post stands weathered gray,
Its wire sags with rust,
It held the cattle in their place,
And kept the trustworthy trust.
Generations fixed this fence,
With tools passed down through years,
An old fence post that still stands firm,
Younglings' boundary clear.
The milk pail filled with suds so white,
From the Holstein in the barn,
The cream rises to the top,
Before it's gathered warm.
We'd sit on stools with buckets large,
And milk until our wrist,
A milk pail full of fresh dairy,
That any farmer blessed.
The scarecrow stands in cornfield wide,
His straw hat worn and frayed,
He waves his arms in wind so strong,
To frighten crows away.
All summer long he stands his post,
Guardians of the crop,
A scarecrow keeps his vigil true,
Nonstop to the top.
The barn owl calls in darkest night,
A screech that splits the air,
He hunts the meadows silently,
His prey never aware.
The moonlight guides his flight so sleek,
His wings beat soundless slow,
A barn owl calls at midnight hour,
To hunt below.
The cornbread crumbles on my plate,
With butter melting hot,
A recipe from grandmother,
That no one else has got.
The cast iron skillet seasoned well,
Makes cornbread just right,
Cornbread crumble in my bowl,
Is warmth on cold winter night.