The stars will be closer
     Above it now
That we are gone
     And the rusty plow

Will rest more quietly
     In the dark
Furrows of a field
     Grown stark.

For sage will spring
     As sweet from dust
When wells go dry
     And fences rust.

And sage and thistle
     And tumbleweed
Are blowing nearer.
     They do not heed

The weathered house
     And swinging door,
Sun warped roof
     And windswept floor

Where the home we knew
     Is beginning slow
To go the way
     Men's acres go.

This is the end
     Of property pride
Yet not the end
     Of a door flung wide . . .

For this is our quaint
     Immortality :
To be remembered
     For the free

Gifts of the hand
     To desert mice
Who will miss us, hopping
     Miss the nice

Cookies something
     Human fed
On the worn doorstep
     In the evening's red.

These will sniff
     For a human finger
At a door where only
     Dark will linger.