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
