No one's Home

Wooden boards, bleached gray like old bones,
Worn edges soft and rounded
Peeling shutters slowly squeal, adrift in the breeze.
Windows aghast, open to Natures Forces.
Eyelet curtains sailing lazily to and fro,
to and fro,
Eyelet shadows playing sunlit games on the bare
walls within.
Floorboards creak and threaten to give way.
No sounds of Home,
Just the scittering echoes of field mice,
and the feathered flapping of Mourning Doves,
their mournful cooing like Gregorian Chants
of cloistered brothers.
The empty, darkened rooms filled only
with the Dust of Time and the Ghosts of life that was.

Curtains billow with the coming rain,
Snapping like crisp sheets hung out to dry.
Raindrops patter on the floor,
leaving speckled patterns
in the thick Dust of Abandonment.
No one runs to hurriedly shut the windows.
Rain pelts the window panes and rivulets of brown,
Stream down its tear stained Face.

No one's Home

Barbara Morrison

Knoxville, United States

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