In the ghost-cold rooms of the old farmhouse, 
history whispers at night. Its secrets –  
dark as the grain of pine and death – flourish  
like fat attic rats crossing rafters. 

Sharp-toothed rumors and red-eyed memories 
nest atop each other in vacant spaces: 
boarded-up fireplace, untrodden hallway, 
stroke-stricken mouth of a slanting porch. 

Calcified windows whiten with years –  
film thickens and hardens mysteries 
unobscured by curtains, shutters, or rain 
during daylight best measured by gray-breasted birds. 

What will become of her? Burden of bones, 
unclaimed remains, what resurrection 
comes to your country? Climbing vines 
and pillar-thick thistles thorn toward the sun. 

Growing groundward, she seems to sleep, 
but evening rouses all things nocturnal: 
scuttering rodents, internal voices, 
long-sabered spirits refusing surrender.