Vol 4, Num 24 :: 2005.12.30 — 2006.01.12
I
These farms have old barns,
with dusty shafts of sunlight
pushing in through cracks
and around the edges of big sliding doors.
Patchworks of light in the shadows,
dim memories the barn has of its people.
People who passed away suddenly.
A heart attack in the field, perhaps,
or while stacking hay.
People who passed away slowly
of cancer, or crippled by arthritis,
working a little less each day
until finally they stopped.
Children dispersed to the cities
as each year more rain came in the roof,
the binder cords rotted away
and the hay began to shift,
losing its shape like a melting glacier.
The edges of the stack softening,
beginning to slide.
The floor of the mow slowly sagging,
bowed like an old farmer?s back.
Beams and floorboards leaning together, grown tired
of waiting for their load to lift.
II
These farms have heavy stones,
each one wrestled from the earth
carefully placed by calloused hands
into a wall on field?s edge.
Built over many years
the wall begins to crumble,
one memory at a time
rolling back to be swallowed
again by the ground.
These farms have old trees.
Oaks and Maples with thick skins,
guarding the secrets of many seasons.
Old trees who thirsted in dry summers,
cracked and groaned on winter nights,
and whispered on August breezes to women
trimming Blue Lake beans in the shade.
These farms have buttercups and daisies
in a field gone to seed.
Other flowers I can?t even name,
never learned to name, now
their fragile beauty is precious.
Up and down the road For Sale signs sprout,
symptoms of the approaching tumor.
A horse farm, pasture, a stand of birch trees,
divided, sub-divided, priced, sectioned off
and parceled out.
Wild flowers sway peacefully.
A soft breeze rustling in the long grass,
right before the end.
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