The earth begins, already,

to reclaim what once was trees;

rotting logs collapse,

roofs are bending

in a slow ballet,

and everywhere

the green grass fires

lick at lumber.

Already sold, these acres

will be ploughed next year,

remains of buildings

burned or buried,

and a field of grain

hungry for the newly-broken soil,

will rise from the forgotten

bones of barns.

Around the yard

the farm machines,

strangely still this fall,

grow from rubber, tired stems.

Their metal blossoms,

huge and red and rusty,

await their own harvest –

auction.

And we three – born here,

who grew here,

who climbed the trees

ran down the river-banks,

swam in the dugout,

hid in the hayloft,

rode horses as rein-free as we –

grown weary of wonder now,

cling to our separate cities,

refusing to repay this farm

for what it was

and what we are.