It stands on a mildly sloping hill,
That is dotted with haphazard trees.
Overlooking a long dried-up creek,
That is now just compacted leaves.

To the right of it lays a few broken posts,
That, I'm sure, once, helped to contain,
Some cattle that surely supported the farm,
That used to be just down the lane.

To the left, there is just a hint of a path,
That must have been very well-trod.
And, farther off, a much- bustling city,
That, back then, would've looked quite odd.

Behind it, the ground hoards some rubble,
Of a farmhouse that fell long ago.
And, amazingly, this old rusty mailbox,
Holds a letter with no place to go.