Visions
The Old Caboose in Springtme
Sitting on blocks,
bereft of wheels
amidst towering pines,
old Number 114
from the long gone
Chestnut Ridge Railway,
its days of journeying gone.
The lone whistle of a train
sounds in the distance.
A snug little home
with a barbed wire fence
and a white wooden gate,
the cupola a sleeping loft,
flowering vine clinging
in luxuriance to the fence.
The winter is past
Spring in the air with
sweet fragrances of new
blossoms and new moan hay,
birds returning, butterflies
flitting about like flying flowers,
an unfrozen, meandering creek nearby,
life returning everywhere!
No great mansion
but to him who lives there,
a blessed place to be,
rich in nature's wonders
near to the heart of God!
bereft of wheels
amidst towering pines,
old Number 114
from the long gone
Chestnut Ridge Railway,
its days of journeying gone.
The lone whistle of a train
sounds in the distance.
A snug little home
with a barbed wire fence
and a white wooden gate,
the cupola a sleeping loft,
flowering vine clinging
in luxuriance to the fence.
The winter is past
Spring in the air with
sweet fragrances of new
blossoms and new moan hay,
birds returning, butterflies
flitting about like flying flowers,
an unfrozen, meandering creek nearby,
life returning everywhere!
No great mansion
but to him who lives there,
a blessed place to be,
rich in nature's wonders
near to the heart of God!
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The Old Caboose in Springtme
The Old Caboose in Springtme
