I think about the train
whistle echoing
down the tracks,
the stone wall in the front
yard, and the pawpaw tree
Papaw planted from seed,
rocking chairs on the front
porch where evenings were
lazy with neighbors
stopping by for gossip
and cake as I played running
up and down the sidewalk.
I go there now to
stand in the level field
along the creek bank
clusters of trees that
were our orchard the
only physical marker,
but I still see those houses
who held the roots of my
childhood, the gardens now
filled only with memories
where the highway
leads out of town.
Amy Le Ann Richardson
Olive Hill