Farmhouse at End of Day

This old house, weathered and gray,
Sits hunched around us,
With its windmill
That no longer spins,
And its fallow fields surrounding.
And we sit, retired, in the porch swing,
Rocking ever after, 
Grateful for the ruin of that 
Which once we thought was so important.
And the children watch with wide eyes 
From the parlor window,
And wonder at the love
That once they thought had died 
But that now they plainly see 
To their amazement
Has only begun.