The Farm

It is as clear in memory as if

upon eight millimeter film: the farm–

neat lawns about the house and trees for shade,

the outhouse, fifty chilly steps away

upon an autumn’s night, and fields on fields

(or so it seemed when I was still a youth)

of corn and hay–my cousin’s working farm.


Right here my aunts and uncles sat that day

among the ruins of the potluck lunch

while cousins roamed about the place.

                                                                       So what

is this–this ragged forest choked by weeds,

this tumbled shack half hid among the trees,

all buried in neglect, and open fields

rearing up development?

                                                   This is,

as written on the edge of ancient maps,

a “Terra incognita.”  Also, “Here

be monsters”–and I shudder at these things.


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Filed under Childhood, farm, Poetry

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