Remains

A blue wind blows a mournful tune
through the glassless windows of the house.

Ragged curtains fly in and out
bees buzz lazily in the humid air.

A hand picks a tickseed flower, growing
through the floor boards in a sunny spot.

No dog growls at the footsteps as the
walker walks accross the creaking floor.

Outside, spanish moss hangs in ropey
masses from ancient oak branches.

Heat has to be pushed aside only to encounter
more heat as the walker walks away.

And the hot air, and insect buzz, the moss and
house remain, but the tickseed disappears.

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