Little Red House

This little red house,
vacant, quiet,
alone in a sallow field
with walls grown
brittle and broken
in slumber.

This aged, failed roof,
seeping nature's rot
across torn linoleum
where bouncing children
often trampled staid
beams of oak.

A home remembered
for its lean holding
where a mother sews,
and a father toils,
before lighting
evening's lamp.

Weeds cover
the path
where a grandmother
picked along vines of
the golden scupper,
with remnants of
her pail now rusted
upon a post.

The aged apple tree,
scattering and dwarfed,
dropping spotted fruit
atop a decaying door,
feeding blue ridge deer
whose ample printing
a cloven medley,
among rise and
fog of a morning.




Teresa Price © 2011