The House in the Meadow
An ancient grey house in the meadow
leans toward the morning sun
as light slants over the hills.
What little green paint was left
Has peeled off the door in papery shreds.
The worn brass handle is utilitarian,
Darkened by years out in the middle of the field,
unprotected by the porch which collapsed half a century ago.
A lazy cow beds down on the east side,
pressing the old structure into a further lean.
Wind carries a salting of spring pollens
through the empty window frames
and whistles out the other side, bearing a load of dust.