fading, flaky whitewash clinging desperately

to what were once straight and rigid clapboards,

now weathered, twisting ,bending

losing their battle with gravity.

framed in golden green by the grass and weeds

grown so tall, so heavy with seed

that they too can longer hold their heads up

in pride or defiance.

overseen by a hushed flannel sky,

grayed by the rain called yearningly

back to earth and soil and seed and flower

and the puddles dried and cracked,

thirsting to be filled once again.

what was new, now so old,

so tired of struggling against the forces

determined… destined to bring all things

back to the mother left behind so long ago.