Thursday, November 25, 2010


There is nothing here

    No space that speaks

No voices chiming in

    From cracked plastered walls

        Or grey glassless windows.

They come from the wind

    Softly caressing, haunting thoughts

People toiling and treading

    Laboring and dying

        Resting under the sod

Upon which I walk.

She creaks, this old house

    She moves with the wind

She aches for the yesterdays

            Of fresh paint and manicured yard

Her tenders left, passed away

    And so she faded

White paint dulled to a bleached gray

Caressed by the weather

Loved by boys hunting,

        Tattooed with buckshot and .22's

She sways and someday will fall

    With the wind that loves her still

        She will find her tenders then,

Finally joining them under the sod.

No comments:

Post a Comment