Healthy lilac bushes sit by a wooden
stoop into what was a home. The house
no longer stands, but once it creaked
through hill storms and bent under
winter snow, sheltering a family.

We step between purple blossoms into
the home that was. Almost we smell
a steaming pot of beans, fresh cornbread.
The wind, like the shouts of free range
children, scuttles through.

As we move through the small dwelling
area, family presence surrounds us. We
envision a plank table with red checkered
cloth, imagine mealtime chatter and muted
worry talk of water shortage and failing crops.

Nearby, a tiny orchard remains, planted in hope.
Stunted apple knobs and what might be pear,
fruit that hangs on, even though the family
had to desert this hilly homestead.

We rescue a rusty 1935 license, tuck it beside
flavors of family we imagined, leave lavender
blooms, wormy apples, and an echo of children
laughing.

I cannot forget this place. It spins in and out
of fond memories. I see it now, tucked in the
hills behind Lone Pine. And I always wonder.

(Printed in my 2009 chapbook, “On The Way
to Everywhere” out of print)