THE OLD FARM
The house, long skeletal,
Now, it’s no better than
the scattered graves.
At least there’s wildflowers
that skirt the grizzled tombstones.
The ancient cellar’s stocked
with bitterweed and mole holes.
A rusty woodstove swears
it never cooked a meal.
So who was happy here?
Who curled up on the broken bedsprings,
sat staunch before the dying fire?
Even the traces must die to rejuvenate.
A family of dust and bone
is surely less here than the hoot owl’s cry,
a raccoon’s scrounging.
So why do I sense them in the air,
the grass, the feel of foot on stone,
not dead, but as alive
as cawing crow, the elderberry rustle,
the milk snake in the grass.
The sun is warm as an embrace.
Puffy clouds make faces in the sky.
Every silence is a voice.
Each titter of leaf, tickle of grass,
And then the wind picks up
and how we laugh together.
John Grey is an Australian born poet, but has
been a US resident since the late seventies. John works as a
financial systems analyst. He has been recently published in
Slant, Briar Cliff Review and Albatross with work upcoming in
Poem, Cider Press Review and the Evansville Review.