The Property

It's a land of tailings
Incapable of growing
Anything valuable
According to the Amish,
A tax write-off at best.

The corn's volunteer,
Carried here by coons
Or dropped as turds
By deer that vanish
Right before the eyes.
At night, something
Boulders the pond
And leaves no print.

One day, I could,
To please myself,
Build a house half
Into its stony face,
Roof angled for the best
Light in all seasons,
Cool in summer, warm
In winter, with no back
To protect, ever.

Copyright © 2005 William Ford All rights reserved
from Fugue
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission