Farm house
Old and empty
Miles from anywhere
Miles from anyone
A broken window, or two
One unbroken step, out of three
To the bowed, unsteady porch
A door, still solid
Open just enough
          as if asking me in
I accepted
The creaks and slight groans
                             of the floorboards
Echoing my curiosity
A steep narrow staircase
Seemingly to nowhere
A collage of peeling paints
                               and wallpaper
Portraying a timeline
                   of moods and change
The smallest hint of sun
            filtered by dusted glass
                   dotting the kitchen table
The only, lonely furniture
A tint of retrospect
            failing, fading
                   on the wood of a thousand meals
On those that might have sat
                   in the chairs now missing
A sense of sweat
A sense of simpler,
                  though not less noble, thoughts
A comfortable, musty inhalation
Of who we were