“Tailgate bridge” by Kari Burchfield

Across tailgate bridge
lies what was once a magical land.
Fields and fields of corn and tobacco,
honey bees nesting in their hives.
A small grove, one tall walnut at the center,
saplings all around bowing to its might.
A path leading to a secrete place
where the lichen crusted stumps
and crumbling bits of a stone wall
could spin a yarn a mile long.
The hoot hoot train announces its arrival.
Time keeps moving.
The falling down house at the hill’s crest,
a relic of its former grandeur.
An upright column here,
a broken one there.
Carefully laid brick stretching three stories high,
dentil molding affixed just so.
Just dirt now for the front yard,
weeds knee high.
A blue care worn tractor,
the grass beneath bent in a circle.
The farmer’s been here lately.
Time turns around.
The hoot hoot train rumbles along.
Stone walls and tree stumps fade to a whisper.
Saplings no longer worship at the altar.
Honey bees have moved on,
their hives strewn about, discarded.
Fields are all burnt up,
left to rot.
Tailgate bridge has disappeared,
across the bone dry creek bed.

-Kari Burchfield

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