Nothing is just for show here, nor for fashion.
Things are just as they are, and people, too.
Things last their time; aren't wasted to conform.
Whatever says "Conform, do as I say"
is likely to be laughed right off the mountain.
Some days I wear things my grandparents wore.
I like long skirts, flat shoes, and knitted shawls.
I like a road that favors mules or horses
above those unsustainable, faddy motors.
The horses are gone now; they could come back.
A lot of things are gone, but could come back:
the places where the children used to play,
the friendly horses, cows, the little goats,
the chickens. The molasses making. Bees
still buzz around the old beekeeper's hives.
Water still spurts from the artesian well.
The fields could be reclaimed, not ploughed but terraced
with straw and woods earth and perennial crops.
I like the flybush, red in late September,
pink lady's-thumb that tastes like raw green corn,
the purple dogwood leaves, the yellow poplars,
the mints that grow wild all around the springa.
I like the terrapins and salamanders
and crawfish that hang out around the creek,
the cardinals that tend the privet hedge,
the way I see, each time I step outdoors,
a nature story begging to be written.
There used to be more people, nicer people,
but home is what you have when people die.
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