Appaloosa Rust

Like a Norman Rockwell dedication to the post-Depression years,

A Grandfather’s farmhouse remained determined for another winter.

Much had changed over the years.

Lush farmland was now but leathery blisters

On green and yellow fields

Surrounding the crumbling battlement of an era.

A stalwart farmhouse remained poised for collapse

Like it had for years.

Peering through the glass less window into the living room,

The old pastel nautical design of seashells in resin

Had become the ravaged ceiling’s collage of a

Weather-caked miniature beach.

Once white-painted driftwood and nets,

Hung precariously wind torn from the remaining ceiling.

A turquoise sign above the coal stove reading “My Happy Place”

Hung precariously with the weight of decades of soot and dust

Like a carpet of history.

Grandma and Grandpa

Once shining pride like the rubbish

Gathered about the old black white tv

Now but a fractured memory

A memory now imbued with the chipped veneer of their kindness

The old house caught a wind gust

Creaked like hollow trees,

Like dry bones touching one another.

Remnants of a lace curtain

Quivered its once fine threads

Like a million lifelines of desperate pleas to the breeze.

Unlike every crevice and corner

Of the farmhouse still standing,

Its insect accommodation maintained a “No Vacancy” haven

And to many a spider’s delight,

Nary a corner withstood the 8 legged squatter's-celebration.

My emotions surged up,

Yet tears were in waiting,

Like the way deserts wait for rain.

But then…

I came upon Grandfather’s old, weathered truck

Standing dilapidated in aged stagnation,

Metastasized rust in Appaloosa shaped erosion,

Bringing the belated moisture to the eyes.

Time had taken possession

Of the wheels that taught me how to drive.