The house sits at the edge of the woods.
Long abandoned the forest has taken over.
Vines tendril through nooks and crannies.
The door hangs on one hinge.
In the center of it all, a tree has grown,
pushing its way through the roof,
The ironwork has rusted.
The floor has collapsed.
And the mortar between the bricks has fallen out.
Bricks litter the floor,
of what happens, slowly,
from the first moment of surrender
to the last.
About this poem
About buildings. About our own lives, on so many fronts.