The Acreage of Unsaid Things
By A. Firebaugh
She stands at the worn and weathered door,
fingers resting on faded wood.
The world beyond is dusk and shadow,
but her eyes drift across years and fields.
A brother's laughter drifts back,
high and bright,
echoing off the walls that once held
their games and arguments,
their whispered plans to swim in the creek,
to play hide and seek in the building near
the spring house.
When she squints, she can still see them --
Ghost-children barefoot in the front yard,
sitting side by side on the porch swing,
daring one another to make it go high and
fast.
In the stillness of the evening,
at the edge of her land,
she whispers to the night:
"I am still here, waiting where you
left me."
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