Saturday, February 11, 2012

XI: The Farmhouse

There is a wheelbarrow in the yard
full of withered marigolds.
The dry wind is sighing
from across the barren cornfield.
The besieged sun in the grey sky
provides only a meager warmth
and from somewhere miles away
a passing locomotive engine
sends out a long mournful note
as it pursues its errand southward.
A house with crooked shutters
and cracked and curling paint
peers, through smudged windows,
at bands of blackbirds out in the field.
Brown leaves slide across the porch
under a dusty wicker rocking chair
which creaks back and forth
in the silent breathings of the air.

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