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.