Old carcass of a farmhouse left to wither and lean,

the turns and cuts of wood grayed and rotten,

the remains of a kitchen,

a meal left on the table,

a conversation abandoned in the middle.

Winding dirt roads and imprints of tires

below a row of shedding maples,

woodland yellow and orange ground,

a stomping patrol of geese headed to Mexico.

Peace and tranquility on an old plot of land

and something terrible happened here.

A memory of a moment writhes along the wind,

agony in the shadowed crevices of old rooms.

Footprints running on the floor,

dust on the mantelpiece.

Bedrooms empty and the kids were gone first.

Dirt beneath all mushy and rank with decomposition

of the earth, soil pattered with fleshy necrosis

where all the dead of the world reside.

Quiet air of lost and gone voices.

A jagged axe forgotten in the hayloft,

aged by rust.