Old Houses

With the fail of light,                     
sighs of old houses
sift down from their attics
as they settle in to slumber.

Boards hunker down to rest.
Nails relax and loosen their communal hold.
A collective nod to gravity
for the trump she is.

In the late hours when no one listens
except the wind and wandering mouse,
prodigal time itself returns
to console the countless days
still roosting in the rafters.

Then too, comes the dying time when calendars end.
No foot treads the stair or cellared depths
and no hand slams the doors.
Peeling paint and rust and ruin,
bleach their flesh-bare bones.

Houses stand weeping in the rain,
with only shadows to move across their floors.
The cruel death of dry-rot whispers,
"They all left you long ago,
your keys now lost and gone."