Relics

A quartet of weathered buildings

on a frozen misty plain

The first keeled-o’er from the snow, white sun, and rain.

Second is a silo, powd’ry steel intact and near

Much a thing still left inside it- Tis not right to pry, you fear.

Next, a pleasing cabin ancient pioneers did craft

standing proud through waves of Now; and an anchor to the past.

Last a lonesome stable, made crimson by milk paint

Apprehension stirs inside you as you peer far past the gate

 But here is nothing new to see

but a barren floor in its entirety.

A deep need for Time now satisfied,

After walking away, you find

that the hard-earned favor of these presences has been gained

by keeping foolish pridefulness closely rein’d.

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