Apples, planted before the road was paved,
wave grey barked branches.
The mercy of pruning long overdue.
Abandoned shovels await an order to turn the plot.
The windows look in more than out.
The roof a sagging gesture under the sky.
The mortgage, the dream, the honey-do-list
now the terrain of squirrels and an eight-point buck.
The wink of Venus won’t distinguish
between foreclosure, or tenant.
Stagnant water gathers in plastic tubs
mirroring the early moon…
I doubt the ghosts care for my interpretation.
The haunt as real as ruts in the road.
A creak in the floor sings under a trespassing wind
as an owl speaks as it will for years.
Will Schmit is a Midwestern poet transplanted to Northern California. Will has been reading and writing poetry, in between bouts of learning to play the saxophone, for nearly forty years. Will’s new book of poems and provocations, Head Lines, is available, by request where ever books are sold. www.schmitbooks.com
photo by Carlos de Miguel (via unsplash)