It’s of an old house, the grain and knots of the wood are
exposed, and in a few places chips and splinters fold out like an old wound.
The ground has sunk since the house was built. It has a forgotten-ness to it.
Once it was well kept and maintained. Built in love,
sheltering those it loved, and carefully cared for to keep it against time.
But they died, and the inheritors didn’t want it, didn’t
care for it, didn’t love it.
The old glass is replaced with boards, and slowly, rain is
staining this wood in its own color. As the branches grow thick, the road
becomes a bumpy path, and little light gets in. Slowly it’s forgotten, and
fades away, mourning its master, it’s maker.
Hinges rust, and doors become walls, not so solid as animals
gnaw and crack their frame. In due time walls will fall, and crumble. The wind
will scatter what it can, and the rest will rot. But that is not the end. The
broken bones of this house will sink into the earth, and the boards of old
trees will feed and bloom new trees, as they reach up to the sky.
