The old house down the road

The walls of the house still hold
the roof, though their peeled skins
lay bare wood to the elements.
I wonder if history leaks
from those exposed boards,
if with each rain, a little memory
is washed away and lost
among rivers that race to the sea.
Around one corner, where
two walls almost join, a creeper crawls,
holding the boards together, green
leafed and purple flowered, a pretty
palette punctuated by the sun's arms.