Going Home

The tarpapered shack sits crumbling in the high weeded wood;
Boards missing from the dilapidated porch; windows broken
Reflections of joy are faded in jagged shards and shadows;
Etched by the afternoon sun in smoky layers of yesterday

A few dozen feet from the creek; one hears the gurgling stream
Whispering river stones sing; worn round by tumbling time
Tiny paw prints track across the sand leading up the grassy bank
Beneath a fallen log is the deep hollow recess of a fox’s den

Behind the makeshift cabin are broken remnants of ancient toys
Sunken prow of a handmade ship rises from the shifting sand
The smell of damp earth, moss and honeysuckle lingers heady
Mixing with the forest perfume of moist and rotting wood

Standing silent and still, one can almost hear children screaming
A girl in a calico dress running from a boy with a lizard in hand
“You younguns best behave and stay away from that crick!”
“You’ll git on a snake down there, don’t make me git my switch!”

The pursuer drops his captive and the refugee goes free and safe
Wind catches and rattles a loose piece of tin on the slanted roof
Reminding of stormy nights pelting raindrops in firecracker snaps
Lightning flashes memories across the mind in a locomotive rush

How the water roared and trees bent low for the passing of giants
They tramped down from the mountains to the valley in the rain
Wading the rapid waters like the beast from Jack and the beanstalk
A dirty faced, barefooted sinner sits scared, holding his sister’s hand

Upon the white and cedar mountain the eponymous author wrote
His tales of life before black and noisy cities choked his dreams
The ghost of Thomas Wolfe is whispering among living pines
You can go back! You can! But then, you can’t go home again