the farm that grew me still glows.
Golden grainy silver dust
Captured by warm childhood sun.
searching for something misplaced.
Long hidden in the plowed lines of family fields and absent roads.
Rising up through layered years of
gathered hopes and fought back tears.
Homestead sweat and rusty nails reach out
to puncture the work day with a ruptured tire.
gathered far or near from here.
Whittled by a moccasinned soul
kneeling on this strategic ridge.
One eye always scanning for fear,
the other casually sculpting death.
from the powdered sun and upside roots.
Greet the past with a nod to the warrior man.
Was this carelessly lost from a leather pocket?
Or did he let it fly only to watch it
Startle and bolt his hopes away?
whose great precision subtly hid
this volcanic slice of brittle liquid rock.
And the curious drive my grandpa shared
as we silently stalked our land,
searching carefully to save this factual art
from the steel sharp dig of industrial claws.
Knowing I will never walk our land again.
A place now owned by invading trespassing shadows.
Strangers violating my well-worn paths.
They will not think to look to find
the buried link to all that’s passed.
