a house upon the lane

There stands a house upon the lane,
its roof and walls in disrepair —
so compromised by all those years.
From crumbling wood does stone appear
and set the stage for what remains:
a moment, frozen in the sun,
its details worn and faded soft,
a memory of other days
and other times and other ways,
until this moment, too, is done.
The house upon the lane will stand
til time has worn its walls away,
and sun has burned its memory
in silent, frozen reverie,
it holds within its rotting hand
this moment — it has run its course.
Though it is old and dim and frail,
it made a difference in its time,
a fresh new thing, from this, will climb,
its death, for this, a feeding source.
There stands a house, its curtains drawn,
and in it, all things come and go.
A moment caught in golden dew,
to fade and nourish something new,
and from it, time meanders on.