You arrived in 1866 with your plow , barbed wire, and dreams.
And those dreams held for a spell, just like the rough-hewn fence posts you worked into the rocky soil.
But fence posts lean, and oak saplings outgrow their usefulness for stringing wire.
And the wind blows. It blows hard until your dreams desiccate.
Those remnant hopes of yours pass on through three families
until they are locked out for good.
Your fine Victorian home’s windows are boarded over or shattered
Vermin, owls and pigeons inhabit a drafty barn, once warmed with feeding cattle.
Your proud barn, is wind warped and paint peeled: a curiosity for nosey travelers.
Are those marmots under its footings?
There is no outgoing mail.