Why Are These Chairs in the Snow?

On the heels of my post about contentment (below) came hard news, coupled with a game of tag with pneumonia again. Hardship doesn't change my point of view. Storms can rage above the soil, but the soil rests unchanged.

After days spent in bed, I checked in with the world renowned Poetry Bus and found the Love Bug's photo prompts for Monday's bus tour, coincidental with Valentine's Day. The eclectic band of poets around the world will do wonders with the prompts. We're linked here. I offer this dirge, constructed out of sadness and sickness.

Why Are These Chairs in the Snow?

The roof caved in
the first dereliction
I thought it better built than that
its mathematical strength collapsed
beneath the first frost

Then someone came and took the glass
in the dead of night
good windows they were
but not paid for
a double pain that

The door was next
solid oak and fireproof
not proof against the vagaries of wind
the neighbor heard it howl
as the hinges tore

That wall went
with the next big snow
unsurprising with the gaping hole
of the fleeing door
and purloined windows

Two more collapsed
in the following thaw
warping wood ripped out nails
poorly placed
poorly pounded

The north wall stood
a mass of ice
until our mattocks tore it down
to fuel the fires
in our separate homes

All that’s left
of your inheritance
are the chairs where your parents sat
and planned your legacy
claimed by squirrels