Farmhouse

The white paint has peeled off in the corners
revealing the graying wood beneath
where wind and sand and grit and time
have battered the frame and slammed against the door

The porch, no longer level, still beckons
waiting for visitors to approach
reminding itself of days in late June
fifty years before, watching the cotton grow

The roof looks like a patchwork quilt
exposed in areas where storms have taken shingles
as trophies of their violent rage
no one has felt the need to replace them

Unlivable was the word they used
but more likely they had just given up
on trying to keep the memories alive
as the generations still drove by for a visit.