To the neighbors,
the derelict farm’s a ghost
ship, adrift
on a sea of brown
and green.
To the memories
trapped inside,
the home’s a hulk.
They’re soldiers
waiting out a war,
not caring
which side wins
so long as the end comes
before a pestilence,
waiting for the chance
to cross the fallow ground,
to vanish
into the dogwood
and birch,
there to settle
with the deer
among the reeds
by the pond
and be forgotten.
