The Ghost Of A House...
Autumn leaves dance on old branches,
Large and stout arms to hold the falling rain of color,
A luxurious russet blanket covering the still-green grass,
A palette yet to be painted in the crystalline tones of Jack Frost,
That wandering vagabond of cold and breath-hushed nights,
A trillion mirrors on Earth of the billion twinkling stars in Heaven's night.
I saw its bones once,
Boarded up with faded and chipping paint,
Not long before the bulldozer struck.
It haunts me on Autumn nights,
The old farmhouse at Eaton,
Where love must have been made,
Children raised and played,
Where the old oaks shade only the ghost of a house.
By: Daniel A. Stafford