I had the pleasure of taking a long car ride, yesterday, through the wooded back roads. We deemed it a shortcut but, really, it was colorful eye-candy. What I thought about most, though, were all those old-fashioned, abandoned farm houses and antebellums. As I whisked by each one, I could almost feel their busy ghosts of some other lifetime calling out to not be forgotten. I thought about all the families, the lives, the births, the deaths, the important memories long-ago lived and probably now forgotten. It struck a chord in me to write and this prompt gave my words ignition.
This back road spins like a sundial set to fast-forward. I am driving west, way beyond the peripheral of my memories' hope chest. The last of an evening sun cuts a line between the prairie, a diagonal orange alongside shadow as if one ray, alone, could not survive inside such solitude. Dilapidated farmhouses, abandoned of some earlier, busier year, dissect the wilderness. They sway against the backdrop of hollow meadows and winter wood, hidden eye-emblems only meant to be seen by the random traveling gypsy.
Today that girl is me and I dip into the ancient scribe-scenery of old poets who came before me. An abstract stillness lays between the hills of my windshield-horizon. A brown blur eased across the rounded shade of green, as if mother nature got a bit too giddy with her brushstrokes. Or, perhaps, the early evening shadow skewed her iris.
Each eye is a scab
marred by dark indecision.
Today I shed old skin.
Written for the Monday Haibun at dVerse.