Century House

by John L Thompson

The house sits forever in the middle of no where.
On overgrown fields and by rolling hills of tangled pinon trees,
surviving from one century to the next.
The wood weathered to gray and it splinters easily.
The roof sags inwards, the earthen floors covered in time.

If one is quiet and listens to the winds,
one can hear the laughter of children playing,
fathers cursing and toiling the earth,
mothers beating old ragged rugs and cooking.
The house gave shelter to families for past generations.

The fields are overrun in ruin.
Youth has passed away to dust,
and the children did not take up the trades of the earth.
The house sits lonely and old,
and now only gives partial shelter to the infrequent passing of strangers.