Along the route of…
Old is new
Slate to tin roofs.
You can see dusky corn rows
into the heart of tomorrow.
All the while,
snow white sorrow
Pretentious and antiquated and ancient and misspoken.
Glimpses of a past paid for in tokens.
Granite blue and red with sunset morale.
Deserted fields with one lone buxom cow.
Gingerbread, maple and fire sift the air.
It would seem the newest of England does not care.
A postal box envisioned by primitive design.
Last stop…missing the sign.
Wildlife encounters and other oblique…traveling shows
Mountains upon mountains of nowhere to go.
Snow white would only be fit the beguiled few
A narrow state of mind…nothing new.
Grandpa’s Deere up on wooden blocks.
Too many, too many’s, pawned at the shop.
Looks like Poe’s the raven.
Feels like Frost’s haven.
Fierce farmland, as far as, the vulture flies
Windchill’s torment a native daughter’s third eye.
Styrofoam sounds like dripping mountain dews.
Underneath, snow white so blue.
A Mother’s milk and Mother’s mishap.
Skin stretched out over a dimming fall
Stoned in granite over it all.
Scenic one leading to one more.
Agape, another English styled country store.
Clothes lines made up of crippled shaker chairs.
Bumper-ed Harley’s loosing their flare.
It is a granite state of mind…
Earthen embryo by design…