Lost, a poem.

They tore the old chicken house
down the other day.
A place I’d known for always.

The chickens left not long
after Grandpa did.
(Not by choice, he died.)
But the name stuck through
years and seasons.

It has held a variety of things:
Rusting motors, tomato cages,
buckets of nails, vet meds, old boards,
even calves, from time to time,
when space was in short supply.

It’s amazing how empty
the landscape now looks.
Brushed clean of all
but foundation.

Even the tree,
once hidden behind it,
looks a little lost.

2 Responses