I went back to Grandma's farm
one day and wish I hadn't.
I searched through the rubble of my shattered
dreams
and came up with only a rusted nail
and some aged, rotting wood
that once belonged to Grandpa.
Time had robbed me of what
should have been mine.
I had spent precious childhood days at this
farm, this retreat,
and longed to return to walk along that dusty
road
where now only skinny, leaning fence posts
stood drunkenly at attention.
Why did they desecrate this
hallowed place
that shaped and polished the bright patina of my
youth?
Who removed that creaking porch where I
stretched out in the sun
to listen to the summer bees noisily foraging
for sweet nectar?
Who hauled away every last visage of the barn
where I poked my way through cobwebs on the
stairs,
dodging laying hens in their unprotected corners
to reach the lofts where Merle and I swung from
ropes
and bounced on soft cushions of sweet-smelling,
new-mown hay?
And where is that well, that
deep reservoir of pure, cool refreshment
that we dropped frogs into when Grandpa's back
was turned?
Who sawed off at ground level every single apple
tree in Grandpa's orchard
and with yellow bulldozers changed forever the
once beautiful terrain
to accommodate their out-of-place, modern
split-level homes?
Oh, my shattered dream, my
favorite childhood place,
we should have protected you more
and preserved you for our children
and our children's children
so that they could share our memories
of that farm, that most precious spot on earth
where today sits only mocking memories of our
fleeting youth.
