The house, old and gray,
Sits back in a field
As houses did then,
Before cars came to compress the day.
From here I see the woods,
The river’s run, the spiral of the valley
Under clouds of rolling snow
To the road the machines come through.
I think I will stay here tonight
To keep company with the house,
And recreate the goodness of our small love,
To be ready for them when they come.
Yet I fear when they come
I will only say I came to watch
Machines destroy a house
Built with someone else’s small love.
© 2016
"Small love" or the ordinary love of ordinary people; that is, those of us not "important" enough to be noticed beyond the commonplace and who bear the burden of "progress" without protest.