PHOTOGRAPHER'S JOURNAL: Thoughts on photographing an abandoned farmhouse.
At the threshold
Milk was left
And muddy boots
And ill will
And first kisses
In the blizzard of '88 the snow was piled to the top of the door.
Summers, the screen door
Let the breezes pass
And the smell of midday meals
And the tractor's steady grind.
One fall the dog sat on the stoop and barked all night.
Across the threshold footsteps tracked
The days and weeks,
Wearing the boards.
Till the paint on the door jamb was thick,
The wood, brittle and dry.