Through the old window,
I look and see,
Dying pink roses,
Cows dotting a field,
And the breeze moving leaves on trees.

Through the old window,
I look and see,
Dirty panes once cleaned,
Weathered by use and years,
Protected by peeling paint and screens.

Through the old window,
I see long days,
Of work and summer fun,
Where hay was cut, trucks picked up,
And a boy climbed fences to play.

Through the old window,
I look anew,
Wondering who stopped here,
To gaze into their past,
Did they see with a different view?