Deserted Farmhouse in Winter - David Henson

I come across a deserted farmhouse,
walls leaning as if slowly imploding.
My steps through crusted snow
crunch like children eating apples.

Missing sideboards reveal
stacks of bushel baskets,
a wooden ladder, rungs broken.

I kick loose a Jonathan
frozen in mid-decay,
toss it onto the roof.

A shingle slides loose,
leaves me fearing
the whole place could collapse.

Sometimes I can’t believe
I’ve reached this stage.
I close my eyes, try
to imagine the apple trees
are newly planted seeds,
a hand, youthful,
patting the soil.
But a cold wind rattles the icy limbs.
And me.

David Henson and his wife have lived in Belgium and Hong Kong over the years and now reside in Illinois with their dog, who loves to take them for walks in the woods After retiring, David learned to play piano, focusing on boogie woogie and classical styles (managing to get tennis elbow from practicing the finale of In The Hall of the Mountain King). He then returned to writing, which he’d put on the back shelf after crafting poetry in his younger years. Today, he writes poetry, microfictions and short stories. His work has been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes and has appeared in various print and online journals. This is his first appearance in Front Porch Review. His website is His Twitter is @annalou8.