Touchstones/Photographs

There is the remnant of an old barbed wire fence.
In the beginning, one Autumn
My brother and I found ourselves buried in the fallen leaves,
Laughing in the season's refuse.

Over there where the stable's shadow
Fell across the connection
Between the grey, wooden fence and the hog-wire pen
My brother fell, face first,
In the deep green-grey muck
Which provided the pigs' preferred place
For comfort and ease,
And which provided a brown theatrical mask
For my brother's entry on the boards
Of the front porch of my grandparent's farmhouse
And caused our grandfather's confusion
Soon washed away by my brother's tears
And the gardenhose out back.

There in the back stood the smokehouse and coal shed
Where the fragrance of hams and coal smoke
Lasted for decades among the dark cool shadows
And cobwebs
Of their musty interiors.

At one time, there was a chicken house behind the coal shed
Where the hens laid our breakfasts and the prime ingredient
For the boiled custards and lemon pies of our Christmas celebrations.

At the end of the old drive back toward the fenceline
Covered by trees and bushes planted by wayward birds
Was a cabin, now torn down,
But at that time, in the deep, cold grip
Of late Fall, the hands stripped the leaves of tobacco
Chopped from the fields and fired in the tobacco barns
Providing cause for more confusion
When strangers to these parts
Drove by the smoking barns on their September excursions
Through the bright Autumn leaves decorating the end of the year.

Stepping out from the shade of the guardian oak trees,
Our shotguns resting on our shoulders,
Man and growing boys would pass down the gravel drive,
Past the ponds, pickup trucks and propane tank
Parked along the driveway,
Our paths leading to the late shorn fields,
Bereft of their crops,
Covered over with good cover
For the quick sprint of the cotton-tail rabbits
And the whistled clatter of the quail coveys
Followed by the crack of our weapons
And a quick search for the fallen prey.

There is an amber photograph of two boys
Buried in their uncle's coats,
Holding the prize of their labors
High above the birddog's reach,
She offering her reverence to the hunters
Home from the fields.

The pride reaches strongly from antiquity
And calls a sad melody even to a deafening, aged ear.