Broken stones and brick from the great twin chimneys,
All that remain of the house. The land still slopes gently
All the way to the river. I remember how large it looked
To me as a child, that old farmhouse almost as tall
As the giant sycamore tree, stark and bare
Like the mountain women
Who cooked and sewed and bore children in it.
I remember three porches, three sides of life:
The back porch for kitchen work, the side
For tying up horses, feeding hired hands,
The front porch where family sat in the evenings
On feather feed sack pillows in rocking chairs
While neighbors visited and great uncle Braxton
Played the banjo.
In my dream I am cleaning this house,
Letting in air and sunshine,
Cooking cornbread in the old wood stove.
I am making a place for myself.
I am thinking that here
In the presence of the grandmothers
Is where I want to live.
Vol. 31, no. 1, 2002