by Ken Saffran
She asked me to come with her to this frozen field
while she walks the ruins of her childhood.
I imagine days with long grass, with lots of snow,
follow her bootprints back in time.
The house used to be
all that remains is a cement step.
The barn abandoned, roof caved in
by heavy snows and summer thunderstorms,
but mostly from neglect.
This really is all passersby can see.
So few people use this road
the locals would slow down and wonder
a man standing by a car in winter
a woman walking through a long empty yard
No matter how I may use words
that world is beyond reach. Only light
harvests the tall brittle weeds.
Old fences overgrown,
vines coiled about each post,
the wire rusted or broken with its past.
We sit a moment in the car
still warm enough to not show our breath
The sky is falling slowly again.