The old barn is demolished, the ghosts
of the gentle cows flitting away.
Winter comes and the ground
shifts. The pasture goes to hip-length
ragweed and goldenrod. The sun
is lost behind a cloud.
We used to pluck
June apples from the mother-
tree and taste their greenness,
vegetable-smelling sour juice coating
our tongues in cotton. Now
nothing left but a stump for three autumns.
Only the mountains remain,
green, green peaks staring
down on us when we wake up
in different bodies,
another person’s eyes staring
at an unfamiliar city.
By Anna Leah Lacoss
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