Post Cards

It is the stuff of postcards,
a perfect composition of nature, age and history,
a story of hope in the shape of a saltbox,
families born, deaths in the upper bedroom,
a drifting away of souls and yes,
that same hope that gave it life,
until it became this – mere fodder
for afternoon painters,
preservers of what is,
dreamers of what was.

About this poem

Someone I know once told me how many barns collapse in Vermont each week, neglected. I don’t recall the number, but it something in the range of nearly one a day. I suspect the number is nearly as high for old homes.

As someone who has restored a couple of old houses in his life, and loves old places with a slightly irrational love, this makes me sad. What makes me sadder still are the lives that are so often abandoned simply because of age or a flaw or two too many.

Tom