Perilously, the gate hangs
on rusted hinges
from a once-white picket fence.
The walkway. impassable
is covered with tall grass and weeds.
Bricks from the crumbling fireplace
lie on the ground in uncoordinated heaps.
Shutters dangle from the windows,
windows unpaned and splintered.
A ghost of its former self,
this once proud home sits in disarray.
I stand at the gate,
© By Charline Coulter (CDC713@aol.com)