up the walls. The roof took flight
long ago, a storm it thinks,

or perhaps the shingles
just decided, en masse, to fly

like birds, to warmer climes,
the great migration of the material

abandoning the nest like fledgling
chicks. Between the floorboards seedlings rise,

pushing it aside to reach the light, which is the way
of things, it supposes. The old house shudders,

vines and creepers circle the crumbling frame, thin
arms lithe and loving, a comfort.

It's not so bad it thinks,
to be abandoned by the people

who cut down its trees, drove nails
into its limbs, sheltered themselves

within its body. Now finally it is
left to crumble, to become soil

again, leaving manmade dreams behind
for the natural, wild world, for dust.