Winter’s Farm House

When the winter winds
Howl beneath the
Bluster of the moonlight
And the snow forms
Sand dunes upon
The frosty plains below
Across the alabaster fields
Dormant and solemn
The little farm house
Stands tall beneath
The dancing pines
Caught by the songs
Of the solstice hour
As they whistle along
To the nameless yet
Ancient tune.
Alone in the forest of snow
And ice
The little farm house
Paint, peeling timeless
Victorian white
Now drab and dingy
After countless harvests,
Famine, the lean years
And the farming family
From birth to empty nest
Not silent after
Seventy years
Orphaned in a potter’s field
Muted against a world
In constant motion
Seeking ever forward
As the old farm house
Has nothing but its past
And old measurements
Of growing children
Long departed
Deep in their heavenly
Sleep on other plots
In other fields miles away
But on this blustery night
A single curtain
Blows in a broken window
To long lost souls
Under a solstice moon
Of winter.

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