One Man’s Homestead Is Another Man’s Junk
A rushy old cabin,
faded white door.
A privy wanting a door,
no longer answering nature’s call.
Wagons without horses,
wheels stop turning.
No tremors in a creek,
wanting to be water.
Cattle once stood,
near dusty-edged pond.
I photograph,
pondering the past.
A story there,
dead at prose end.
— kenne
Images by kenne
i would consider this my homestead 🙂
You can probably add to it in Oracle, AZ. Thanks for the comment.
Oh! what secrets does this cabin hold!
Good question! Thanks for your interest.
Everything is relative… I ask relative to what! If you have been to India, your and mine definition of junk is no where close to someone in India.
Everything is relative to where we are, what we see and who we are. Thanks for the comment.
now this picture i liked liked liked… enjoyed the writing too….captured my imagination.. thanks
I’m glad — thanks.
I like your words”wagons without horses”
Reblogged this on Quiet Desperation and commented:
If you aren’t following this man’s blog yet, you are missing out! Between his beautiful photos and unique prose, well, I must pray about my envy now.