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Remembering the Farm

Thomas Leonard Shaw

Under the sunlight you 

find dried up oranges, the occasional 

cluster of apples, overripe pears and all

other fruits from the farm closed down

years ago.

You talk of the chimney,

how ash used to float in columns

of grey puffs ascending, vanishing

into seamless skies.

I remember the wall paper

yellow and crumbling. You talk

of chipped teacups, smashed

plates and shattered glass.

The last time we visited

this house was barred with a signpost.

Foreclosure it whispers, wood rotting

alongside the sign’s own insides.

We should really call

Mom and Dad, but how

do we travel the distance

from phone call to receiver,

between the first and last click.

We continue forward

without instruction, stepping

over the remnants 

in place of the whole.

Instead I will point

at the rusty wheelbarrow,

the pitchfork by the gate. Together

we recall the fruit market.

In returning to the stalls,

and the colors of summer harvest, 

we remember the fall that preludes





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