I've been busy this past week, so it's time to bring out a hunk of poetry from the grooveyard of forgotten favorites!
|Trimble Mountain Summit (Left)|
As viewed from my front yard
Here's something I wrote ten years ago, reminiscing about the walks I used to take into the woods behind my home. Trimble Mountain used to be covered with farms back in the 1800's, but it's now an unpopulated forest, with some cellar holes and a few relics of civilization around. Some recent logging activity and 4-wheelers have changed the landscape up there since those days when I adventured into the wilderness, so the wilderness of my childhood memories has been lost to me. Oh, well; everything changes.
For many an afternoon in my young life
I spent time away from all others.
Seeking solitude among a great forest,
old trees overshadowing ancient roads,
long overgrown with grass and molds.
A century had passed before my birth
since human life had flourished
in this fallow soil.
And I know as I walk these forgotten roads
that once proud farmers plowed these fields
and toiled honestly for their meals.
An amber leaf of an autumn maple
falls upon my hand
as I walk this row which once housed homes.
The abandoned homesteads
of this forgotten wilderness,
lifetimes ago, they bustled with life,
but now they are lost,
only cellar holes remain.
The hillside I climb to reach the relics
of a forgotten farmer's pride.
The phantom image of once plowed fields
flashes over my eyes.
Yet those ghosts of the hills
are replaced by truthful chills,
that fields are gone forever,
consumed by the forest of the fall.