This house is only boarded on the lower level. One of the upper windows is smashed, both panes of the glass. Other than that it is just neglected looking. Too bad it is likely to be pulled down so something else can go up. It is a busy intersection, on #89. But already covered by enough restaurants I would think.
One thing I noticed and wished I could have dug up were some very scarlet and very deep neon pink sweet williams. There wasn’t much else there remaining of the garden. Tons of weeds and only one groundhog (or some other rodent-ish creature) hole in the yard.
Rural Ruins – by Laura (me).
Suspense and beauty in torn brick, shattered glass, mouldering wood and old craftsmanship, weathering, falling into ruin.
Relinquished by those who made them and neglected by those who could reuse them. Now just an old house in the way in a world of strangers.
Wooden sheds and barns grey with age lean against the Earth waiting to fall into the dirt they grew out of.
Garden perennials struggle in the lawn poked by groundhog holes, roof shingles, glass, bricks and wildflowers.
History and life forgotten in each dusty, spidered window pane, each strongly holding brick and each door with crackled paint.
Mystery shines at the partially open doorway. A touch of things that once were. A whisper of things inside with rotting floors and peeling paint.
Rain, sun, wind and snow the house stands, holding itself up, majestic, keeping it’s secrets. A home to only the wild creatures now.