My Poetry Uncategorized

The Weeds Have Grown Up Around The Stone Fire Ring

(working draft…)

The weeds have grown up around the stone fire ring;
morning glories twist filigree about the wrought iron table
and the lane is laid in gold with last year’s grass,
a few bold saplings, sticky burdock and the
soft fallen limbs of carefully inventoried trees.
The big oaks look good, the hemlocks by the creek
still seem sound, though the adelgids must be there.
A hard winter knocked them back, but not forever.
They’ll regroup, heedless of fairness or heartbreak,
growing and biding as buds swell and sap surges skyward,
The ash trees are going, their crowns tarnished brown,
bark peeling to show their scars–the emerald borers won.
Such small things to bring down such height and vitality,
Massing within, shadowed and secretive until the very end.
The paint is peeling on those old Adirondack chairs;
Vicki had me haul them back to town, to strip and paint;
it’s not right, to let them go, no one using them, she says.
The girls want to paint them “bright burning red.” We will.
They’re old enough I can tell them some of the good stories,
now and then, but not so old they don’t remember you.
We walked the farm with the map you made, but no one
knows what the symbols mean–there needs to be a legend.

By JunkChuck

Native, Militant Westsylvanian (the first last best place), laborer, gardener, and literary hobbyist (if by literary you mean "hack"). I've had a bunch of different blogs, probably four, due to a recurring compulsion to start over. This incarnation owes to a desire to dredge up the best entries of the worst little book of hand-scrawled poems I could ever dream of writing, salvageable excerpts from fiction both in progress and long-abandoned. and a smattering of whatever the hell seems to fit at any particular moment. At first blush, I was here just to focus on old, terrible verse, but I reserve the right to include...anything. Maybe everything, certainly my love of pulp novels, growing garlic, the Pittsburgh Steelers and howling at the moon--both figuratively and, on rare occasions, literally.

3 replies on “The Weeds Have Grown Up Around The Stone Fire Ring”

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