Maybe we'll leave a name behind, letters that spell out scraps of memories, wonder what became of Fred and Terri? Knee deep in the snow, over your head in history, all anyone wants is to be remembered. You must know this – nothing hurts like a dream that's died. A field once worked for a century, lying fallow forever. Farmsteads put to bed, dead to the sleepy springtime. You could still plow the grass under, still sleep under the rooftop, save the soul of the home. Precarious additions could be pared down, cut back to the original shape of this place. The side door hangs on its hinges weeping, three teardrop windows dripping down, eyes wide open. One more winter weighing on a roof that's still straight, give or take a degree or two. It's been about a decade and a half sitting sleeping, ugly beauty, but it's not too late to wake.
February 13, 2020
North Mountain, Nova Scotia
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