I cannot keep myself from going home and questioning my family's history, even though I know I will find little comfort in my attempt to feel a connection.

When autumn harvests sit
bountiful in country cellars,
a one-lane bend beckons me
to a whittled wood-frame house
where I will waltz with ghosts
beside the brittle chimney ruins
of my hallowed family history.
Beneath grave-silent oaks
I will barter my time for stories,
simple unspoken songs, now
as elusive and feather-faint
as the pale gray memories
that rot ‘ever into worn walls.
Assenting to my defeat,
yet resolute to my timely return,
I will soon seek the quiet solace
of these trees, those ashy ruins,
that house, and those ghosts
that beat in sync to conceal
the secrets of my lineal sphere.

The End

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