by John Pillar
It's easy to believe you can go back
Whenever you desire, jump in the car
And drive, arrive at dusk—the hour
You recall most vividly—and walk
Among the buildings spread across the farm,
Out toward the pastures, woods, and fields.
There is music in the leaves, in the dense
Columns of green corn. The wind lays down
The tune. You can play it, too, simply
By walking with eyes closed, arms
Stretched out, lightly striking the stalks.
Who wouldn't desire, like the children
Lost in so many similar fields,
To sit down on the turned earth and drift
Away on the rhythms of his own
First possible death? Rescuing
Voices come closer, veer off.
Strobe over your head. You do not care.
Each building you remember—hen house,
Sheep shed, corn crib, barn—caved in upon itself,
The walls and roofs collapsing with a final
Percussive clap, since you last walked those fields.
No one you will ever know works that land now.
It is as green as Eden.
Life rises in the roots, in the leaves.
please note: art by bronte17