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

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *


Opus Archive!

Check out the history of our pages here!