On our lazy farm, we have fields of endless grass and grace. On our farm, we have the purest clouds. While picking blackberries, you can lie for hours in the trees and listen to frogs and love the clouds.

On our farm, we love waffles and bacon, and we have no alarm clocks. On our farm, we have no storm shelters or radios. On our farm, we raise little children like raising a song from the keys of a piano. On our sprawling farm, hidden caves and hideouts and rocks and streams make it Paradise. On our farm, we do nothing and everything and say "I Love You" in a million ways before the day is done and crystal stars appear.

On our farm, we live off the catfish and perch we catch while sunning in the river with our legs dangling. On our farm, we churn love, not butter, and spin yarns, not wool. Breaded fish and blueberry cake will fill you like the firelight glow in winter. On our farm, we run and never grow exhausted and hide and find each other. On our farm, we watch hailstones and lightning attack the windows which rattle but never break. On our farm, we look back and back and back at the highway of years and find nothing but beauty in them, and the next morning, we are as happy as tadpoles, laughing like fools on the dew-drenched grass.