The Passing Poem by kendall thomas

The wild honeysuckle has taken you
where the rose wraps its cool arms about
the fallen lattice.

Old, gray walls.
Pitched roof.
Myriad voices
once haunted you.

The green, velvet-covered pond is silent,
reflecting your demise.
Weeds taunt you
and vines explore
where spiders hang their silver webs.

And this end,
this quiet death, beneath withered trees,
is the inevitable rejoining of hands that formed you,
whose pride you were.

I alone deplore
this passing,
this brief flashing affirmation
of mutual decay,
here, in the countryside,
you and I.