Rural Ghosts
The chirr of parched insect wings –
bible dust preaching
from long abandoned boots.
Baked into the sky
homesteads linger on the burnt stumps
of exhausted summers.
Dander creaks on dry porches,
wardrobes and rooms open
in a denim haze.
Homesteaders planted a light here
then at days end
dug it up
in earthen mouthfuls.
Aprons were filled, table-tops charged.
Out of the back of a model T
a dapper man sells brushes,
he speaks of things unfarmed
the Brylcreem shine of city sights
until she is swept away.
Such moments go unrecorded
unless by chance you find
a strand of long hair
whipping astray on a skewed field gate.
~~~~
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Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
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