Tuesday, November 6, 2018

JD DeHart writes


The Fate of Our Forest Home

No more battery to combat
the incessant growth of nature,
encroaching on the old home.

At one time, little bare feet
would have patted out the upstart
grass shoots, dun earth defeated
by nothing other than play.

But the children went away, and
the adults followed after. This is
a place of leaving, a testament
to farewells.

So, the rickety home with its 
slapdash composure will soon be
swallowed by these weeds, disappearing
beneath them, blotted out.

People will forget it was there to begin
with at all.

Imagine, if you will, a bottomless
restauranteur sloppily gorging himself
on buttered shrimp, chin dripping.
The world will likewise consume these
memories.

Tendrils will crawl up through
the floor boards, even in darkness,
windows will shatter mysteriously.

Hiding foxes?
Aggressive birds?
Sentient stones?

Home loses to time and change,
shaking away the muffled voices,
the susurrus of somebody else’s
forest-burdened childhood.
Image result for abandoned home paintings --Andrew McIntosh

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