When Pigs Fly on Joy Rd.

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