The ancient farm house—
with its faded-white exterior
and rustic steps

greet me like an old friend.
The red barn,
standing for over one hundred years
welcomes me home.

I am relieved
every early spring,
when we finally pull up
onto the rough gravel lane.
We swing open the door of the house
after a long, cold winter
as the chilly air and musty smell
invite me back.
We sweep up fallen bugs
and wipe the collected dust
off the old iron heat radiator.

Our rugged horses have missed us,
and I have missed the farm.
The green, wide-open hills
call my name
as I take a deep breath,
trying to contain my excitement.
I am finally back
to my favorite place in the world.