No Longer Mine

The crabapples that lined the curving driveway

were once orderly and neat, in a pristine line.

Some have died, others now a wild array

of branches that tangle and entwine

as they grow. A house sits the end of the drive.

Its shingles have blown off long ago

and I wonder how the rooms could have survived

the sluggish drips of both rain and snow.

The windows are broken, the steps black and rotted.

Wasps nest are thick on the ceiling, staining

the porch motley grey, having already dotted

and marred the siding. It's the sole life remaining.

The old house still stands, though in steady decline,

now a remnant of my past, a childhood shrine.