the traffic is
at this hour of the morning.
the sheen of rain across
the pillowed hills
of turned leaves.
i see the red barn
deep in the woods.
the house no longer there.
just a stone chimney,
and fallen lumber,
a border fence,
the gate still swinging on
its post.
a metal sign, with rusted words
saying welcome.
all of it feels like failure.
you can almost hear the breathing,
of the dying,
of the long departed hosts,
on the their knees in dirt,
praying for rain.
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