Day 2 napowrimo
I’m following a prompt given… writing about a specific place. I take this road a lot cause I love the scenery and Heck, it is called Joy Rd. after all.
It’s just up Prospect St.
Three smooth miles of road
Take a left on the dirt of Joy
Kitty corner from the Sheriff station
Feel the car’s tires hit every
Pitted pothole, and rutted out puddle
With the kinda rattle that shimmies
Those girl parts with a little thrill
Travels fast to the top of the head
And in repeat
`
You slow a little cause a rough
country road will tell you too
even when the raw edge of pleasure
tells you something else altogether
Your car will be better off for it
`
Winter strips down nature
Let’s you see through into the austere
gnarled foliage of how people
living in the country build their
domains away from the others
Tucked into the pines and the oaks
`
Maybe have a horse or two
Gather eggs from the chickens
Grow a field of life sustaining food
Fenced in their cloistered lives cause
They can out here on Joy Rd.
And I can slow drive for the thirtieth time
celebrating and breathing in a little country
`
Taking in all the something specials
A little Joy ride for a few miles
Bumping and nearly grinding along
Depending on the season
Depending on the mood rising
Depending on if you want to take
aback road to your destination
I always do.
`
I know that in a couple miles
of slow driving, and being a nosy posy
Looking for treasure on the side of this
winter battled dirt road,
There she stands
`
Lonely, beaten down over a few generations
Of living all countrified and productive
Now sitting on the edge of herself
paint pealing, boarded-up windowed
Porch trashed, roof leaking empty farm house
A barren womb of prosperity abandoned
`
The seasons have had their way with her emptiness
In their freeze and fire that weathered away at
how she once thrived and life filled Her.
Nature will feed on and take Her back to Herself
This Mother is a great Re-purposer when it comes to her own.
It’s how she loves her lost children
`
We face each other, lingering in silence
This ageless beauty sits with all her scars
Her brokenness, her abandoned safety
Her dying shell ever so slowing melding
back into the Earth mother that wants her
`
The austerity of Winter’s breath hangs
between us.
An old/new sign sways on the fence
Maybe the last to tell her story
“Flying Pig Farm”
she flew that coup long ago.
`
copyright 2020, jeanne adwani
