The neighbors moved away
before we moved in,
and now their farmhouse stands
on land going back to forest,
birch trees creeping up on the place.

At dawn, I see deer up on the porch,
free to search through the remaining planks
although I don’t know what
they would possibly want.

I’m curious to see inside,
and anyway it doesn’t belong
to the farmers anymore,
but it doesn’t belong to me either.

Maybe now the forest owns it.
Maybe the deer.
But the place is not mine,
and I feel it asking me to keep away.