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
Becoming is Superior to Being 
i would consider this my homestead 🙂
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You can probably add to it in Oracle, AZ. Thanks for the comment.
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Oh! what secrets does this cabin hold!
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Good question! Thanks for your interest.
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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.
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Everything is relative to where we are, what we see and who we are. Thanks for the comment.
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now this picture i liked liked liked… enjoyed the writing too….captured my imagination.. thanks
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I’m glad — thanks.
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I like your words”wagons without horses”
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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.
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