Conway (Winter ND) by David M. Higgins

Abandoned House

The smell of moonlight on blue snow

The blandness of no shadows

The crackling of frost settling in the clapboards

The screen door banging in the wind

The wooden porch slats creaking with past steps

The silence of black windows with no blinds

The snow that has filled in the grooves of an icy road 

The distant whine of the Great Northern

A hymn drifting through the leafless

    limbs of the old forked elm

    “Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling

    Come home, come home

    Ye who are weary come home” 

The brush strokes speak of our impermanence.

In such withering places lies the melancholy

comfort of what was. But the remains tell another

story, not just of some romantic notion of the past

but because it is what time will do to us.