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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=543672" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Southern Narrative</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The tired old farm buildings<br>Were slumping into the ground<br>Like exhausted children, <br>Fighting to stay upright, <br>But too old, too tired<br>To try much longer.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Possibly, the only thing<br>Holding them vertically <br>Was the amount of vines<br>Sprouting out the tops <br>Of the tilting roofs.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Doors gaped wide, <br>Hinges hanging away, <br>Most of their screws missing, <br>Holding bits and pieces<br>Of the stout planks <br>Which used to make doors.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A heavy metal winch<br>Swung from the upper <br>Door of the barn, <br>Creaking and whining<br>With age.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Where once it had been<br>The lifter of heavy loads, <br>It now hangs limply<br>On a frayed rope, <br>Empty and useless.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The stalls stand bare as well, <br>Rotting, sour hay on floors<br>Which used to be cleaned daily.<br>Rusted milk cans tilt<br>Against walls that can barely<br>Hold them upright.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A saddle still hangs<br>By the vacant doorway.<br>Where it had once shone proudly<br>With bright polish and clean brass, <br>And smelled of horse, <br>It now drops bits of dried-out leather, <br>Like a moulting bird, <br>Onto the unused floor.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Cans of paint, bits of brass, <br>Rusty wire, old hoes and rakes<br>Lay in a jumble on shelves<br>Falling off the walls.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The homeplace, the house, <br>Shows the same state of neglect, <br>Doors ajar, windows sagging, <br>Tiles tilting and sliding off the roof.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The porch dips and sags, <br>Dragging the ground<br>Like the old preacher's wife, <br>Wearing her finest clothes, <br>With her slip hanging down, <br>Tattered and dirty, <br>And very worn at the edges.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The house beside the road, <br>Where people lived<br>And children played, <br>Is empty now, <br>And falling down.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The echos of happy feet<br>Are heard, <br>Tapping to the sound<br>Of Poppy's fiddle, <br>But the house beside the road<br>Is empty, and forlorn.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When a gentle voice <br>Is heard in the house, <br>It is only a singing breeze, <br>Sifting itself through<br>The cracks in the roof<br>Of the house I used to call<br>Home.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Linda Scarlett Treat<br>January 6,2010</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Scarlett+Treat">Scarlett Treat</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=543672" data-title="A Southern Narrative de Scarlett Treat" data-description="The tired old farm buildings
Were slumping into the ground
Like exhausted children, 
Fighting to stay upright, 
But too old, too tired
To try much longer.

Possibly, the only thing
Holding them vertically 
Was the amount of vines
Sprouting out the..."></div>
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