drive down those twisting lanes
off exit 72, past the mushroom plant
you can smell for miles,
through the trees–summer foliage
blocking signals–music gone static–
and turn where the yellow barn once was.
green-roofed history caved in on itself,
battered by rain and mud,
paint peeling like pruned skin.
we knew it wasn’t safe–firefighter exercise–
history gone up in smoke,
a necessary sacrifice but a scar all the same.
gravel crunches where mud once was,
where cows still wander, escaping barbwire pastures.
creek crossing culvert
passing over water we once splashed through.
and there’s the aisle of grass now
trampledtrimmedconverted,
lined with twig saplings planted with
winter wood chips gathered
from old ridge logging roads and
stripes of yelloworangered spray paint markers.
over the years raw land contained.
vines torn down, burned, trees
razed to the ground, sacrificed in favor of
progress. secret garden, hammock prayer,
dove in March sky now exposed.
Anna Stowe
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