In summer at Weyer’s Cave, my grandmother’s garden
sifted through sunbeams in a green, fenced square beneath the screened-in porch
where in the heat of the day she would let me
sit on the cool divan and sort through the browned photographs
of my uncles, at war, thin, tan and grinning
in heated lands of lost flowers.
My grandmother’s garden had zinnias and marigolds,
blue hollyhocks, and bumblebees
amidst the cabbage, and pole beans, tomatoes.
The barn was further down the path
and further yet the little creek where my grandfather taught me to catch bream
and cook them in a skillet at breakfast with buttermilk biscuits and cow’s soft butter.
The white-washed shed held secrets of jellies, and last fall’s hams,
and a pool table.
The men we didn’t know were in the next town planning, they were, talking big,
thinking to stretch a highway and dig an airport in our Valley before another war.
But August at the farm, along the dusty lane, above the spirea,
a tomboy napped andthe sepia’d shots of brave uncles slid like dew-grass to the floor.