I hear nothing but myself, the rocks beneath my feet.
Placid sunset marks the end to everything
before and makes foreplay to everything between these days.
Kool-Aid colored clouds. The shadows of the barren trees, branches swaying in a southern breeze, wildflowers splattered on mossy mounds. From the hill you hear the sounds
highway pulsing still doesn’t drown out leaves rustling, or a gossiping creek- the one you can jump with a sled ’cause the hill’s that steep.
I just stopped with the wind in my hair and watched the sun make
shadows as leaves danced in the air. I’m aware that this is rare.
What can I say about this place? It held, for some time, in some ways –
everything; a homestead, and a playground. The final farm bred generation of this
one store town. And yes, some small entitlements for the seeds that were
sowed: our church, our town, our road.
Histories crumble, vine covered, or burn to the ground, but we’re still
around, breathing and forgetting or forgiving or forging forward.
The grain ripples, ever golden. Sometimes, cotton ball clouds drift across the
Carolina sky but even in the valley you hear civilization’s cries and when
bark colored clouds hinder the sun, I wonder if mother nature has realized what
has become of what once was and is now
on the verge of being lost in all
that’s to be.
All I see is all I know, fields and forests overflow. I am part of everything
here. And I’m scared one day, it’ll disappear and everything so close
to me will just become a memory.
And I understand you really can’t own land, but I’ve got it all over
my hands, along with my forefathers blood and sweat and…
this is where I am
I lay across the grass and feel it brush against my cheek, the breeze vibrates
petals and it’s almost like they speak and they leave
dew on my eyes, I don’t wipe it dry.
Barefoot in the grass, avoiding the broken glass of the abandoned house, once theirs.
At that time, the house still stands, occupied by memories, and in front – those three
huge trees. Creaking porch swing, Kitchen still avocado green.
I could never think of kudzu, Queen Anne’s lace, or buttercups, without thinking of
that place and sun warmed blackberries on that little path, dogwood
“clubhouses” (just that word makes me laugh) honeysuckle, across from the barn, rickety steps and goats that aren’t scared
of cars.
Drops
in the wellspring where I hold this place, safe
from “for sale” signs, intrinsically
safe.
I took some poems I wrote in the past as a starting point and catalyst for this, pieces of them are scattered through out.
