Eventually (Nothing Here But Forest) (Hour Fourteen)

It was a quirky house,

a little problematic.

By the time we left,

The furnace was dead.

The dishwasher hadn’t worked in years.

Windows wouldn’t stay open of their own accord.

The wooded ridge behind blocked half the day’s sun.

After we left it idle,

Nature decided what to do,

And set about erasing a house,

A home, such as it was.

The gravel driveway became grass, knee high,

Where a basketball hoop still stood,

Thinking of two-on-two games long gone.

The roof shingles, on which we lay stargazing upon many a summer’s midnight,

Belong to the mosses now, and the gutters to the grass,

The hedges are trying their best to become trees.

Eventually, yes eventually, there will be nothing here but forest.

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