I hadn't noticed the vacant nature of a few of those houses, until the day that paperwork hit the door and, oh gee, now I see the grass has gotten quite long.
I thought of the poem "Flanders Fields," about the flowers "between the crosses row on row." The poem is about soldiers who died during World War One, and it's a rather famous poem. The red poppy image lives on in the paper poppies sold by wounded veterans organizations for fund raising.
I see those shut off notices, and I see red poppies. Here a dream fell. Here a home died. Maybe the dream was just a dream of making lots of money in real estate. Maybe the home was not particularly happy. Or maybe the home WAS happy. Maybe that home meant EVERYTHING to the people who lived there. On the porch of this house, pictured above, children's toys are tossed about, helter skelter.
It was, however, a beautiful day and these were beautiful houses. The dreams may be dead, but the houses remain, ready to be reborn and filled with new families. In the midst of this terrible struggle over mortgage foreclosure, and outright mortgage fraud, and houses missing their copper pipes...in the midst of this chaos comes opportunity.
The larks, still bravely singing, fly/
Scarce heard amid the guns below/