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Poem	For Lucy, who called them "ghost houses." Someone was always leaving and never coming back. The wooden houses wait like old wives along this road; they are everywhere, abandoned, leaning, turning gray. Someone always traded the lonely beauty of hemlock and stony lakeshore for survival, packed up his life and drove off to the city. In the yards the apple trees keep hanging on, but the fruit grows smaller year by year. When we come this way again the trees will have gone wild, the houses collapsed, not even worth the human act of breaking in. Fields will have taken over. What we will recognize is the wind, the same fierce wind, which has no history.
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