The Bones of This Place
I am still a flower pin worn on a summer hat in this little village…
Not like some who have become the tanned skin
or deeper yet, the flesh of this place.
Earned with years of faithful returns to the waiting cottages
with fine dust on tables
that floats in the slanted sunlight
as the windows rise again.
Others, here around the seasons
are now the very blood running through the street veins-
keeping the fires burning and
nodding a farewell to us when winter walks this way.
The longest here; the ones whose names sit on stones
in silent spaces…
on signs that guide us on…
on barns that have gathered the cherry harvest for
More than one hundred years-
They are the bones of this place-
They are the framework that holds it all together
no matter the changing shape of everything around
as it grows and thins from year to year,
starves and flourishes-
Stands naked in hard years or
wears a flowered hat when the bank is full-
The bones… they hold the memory
of why this place is even here.