Knives can chop the bad memories and spread the good ones.
- Zouch Magazine
- MiPoesias (August 2010)
- Front Range Review
- DC Poetry Examiner at examiner.com
- Guest blogger at 32poems.com
- Contributor for Zouch Magazine
My parents flew their farm ten days later and didn’t return,
except for a short visit when I was maybe two or three –
all my life I have held a snapshot in my palm like a snowflake:
standing on a hill, red barn at my right, the house behind my left ear.
Three decades later and I have grown a fresh memory.
Mother knew the gravel driveway at once,
And we descended down and pulled around perimeters of memories:
the red barn isn’t a lonely soul after all; two more barns keep it close.
Stepping onto the wrap-around porch, I knock on the big red door
and turn to the view for the reason behind the name.
Trees frame the sky as it descends upon a patch of field,
and the distant blue mountains provide a godly backdrop.
Inside, Mother tells me the kitchen sink sits on a different wall,
and she forgot about the area where she did the ironing.
Upstairs, for the first time, I lay my eyes on the tiny bedroom
where I first came into this world, her bed facing a different boundary.
The view through old glass reminds me I only gain all of me when
I climb into mountain spirit. Somehow I have known the farm
is my source, rooted deep in the soil. And having returned,
I have reclaimed the scrap of soul that never left the sky in the field.