FARMHOUSE
A tombstone, the husk of her homestead.
I return, alone, though wry ghosts
are not so far away.
The plow vanished, the red barn left—
without a trace. Forensic acres,
wheat chalks a too familiar crime scene.
More than a welcome was lost.
Now hemorrhaging walls milk mortality,
see the parched wood bleeding colour
on still life fields. Winds pause their prowl
and I mourn worn linens on lines,
the tole-painted rocker, daybreak creaking,
afternoons shucked, a hint of rosewater.
The prairie mercilessly claws
a deserted shell, there, a fresh gust rises,
nods heads that will outlive all that once was.
Roots dare to deepen as shingles fall.
A hollow egg cracks to amber applause.
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“Parched wood bleeding color on still life fields.”
Contributed by John Lawless
“a hollow egg cracks to amber applause”
Contributed by Rhonda Johnson-Saunders
Tole-painted heritage rocker :)