A little bit of land is all I ask.
Just a small place to call my own,
where I can put down roots, so deep
so deep,
that great-grandchildren still will
call it home.
Is it so much to ask?
a lane of trees,
bringing birdsong and colored leaves,
a grape arbor, the roses beyond,
sweet lilacs holding in their arms,
the lawn.
Tulips, and yellow daffodil,
spattered up and down the cellar hill,
sweet gurgling brook, fresh and cool,
the brush beyond
sheltering grouse and sage,
A LITTLE BIT OF LAND
and shy sweet deer.
Oh aching heart, hungry hungry soul.
What little bit to make a grateful
whole.
Is there no spot in all this universe?
a little valley, with a cabin home,
a bit of garden I can call my own,
I would not bruise the land, or tear
it apart,
but keep it beating with a happy
blooming heart.
Each bit of soil, which God had
surely blessed,
would be a cozy home for seeds to
rest,
and grow and nourish, comforting
all men,
with fruit and shade, and food for
every soul.
A little bit of land, to call my own,
within its small confines, a loving
home,
and fertile soil
no matter the toil,
I would so grateful be
if God would take a little chance on
me
and give me a small plot of lonely
sod
that needs a gentle hand, and God.
—fennie Senrud Hutton
