Memory Lane

So much of beauty has come and gone and never known its own worth in farm and field in whitewashed barns in the raucous music of the rooster. Poorer are we for the loss of harrow and ax the woodpile stacked with oak and ash the balsam pillows stowed in drawers of quilted blankets and linens bleached. The not so ordinary loved packed scarf from scraps of sweater knitted the braided rugs made from well-worn blankets and the smell of wood smoke in caste iron. Reminisce with me of clothes upon a line and the smell of sunshine on white sheets. Remember, oh remember the lady slippers deep within the birch filled wood at mid-day. All of these have come and gone mere photos remain pixels without emulsions slick shadow less, machine stamped hulls so little of real beauty remains.