Reverie

I remember

Misses Collins’ henhouse;

made with time-worn stones,

gathered from the land,

and placed with craftsman’s skill-

fitted together,

one upon one,

until an adequate space was framed.

Then, small trees,

or branches from larger ones,

rose in A-shape,

towards the sky.

Rough hewn lumber,

was nailed in place,

and toped by a tin roof.

Wooden boxes,

filled with straw,

were placed inside,

on a broad plank,

that stretched from

side, to other side.

A bit higher,

and running from front to back,

were smooth young saplings,

placed for the chickens to roost.

There was a large door,

that swung heavy upon its hinges-

closed at night,

to keep the predators out.

I remember,

the thrill I felt,

when that heavy door was open,

allowing me entrance,

to retrieve the freshest of eggs;

while new mothers clucked-

calling their chicks

to safety,

and my own mom scolded,

because, I’d ventured into

Misses Collins’ henhouse.

I revised, and built upon a previous submission;

http://www.gather.com/viewArticle.jsp?articleId=281474976793184

Please critique.