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it ^ Memories and Weeds To a ghost farm, we travel. It lies unoccupied except for memories and weeds. A boy once laughed here, living innocent as morning dew resting upon clover fields and this was home. Now he is a ghost and we share shadows, exploring and prospecting for treasure among blue mason jars lost in Queen Anne's Lace. Once boxes held yellow chicks awaiting mother's hand at feeding time, but today grape arbor vines cover the smoke house empty except for the gray songs floating just out of range of this world. Mother's rhubarb still lives and gives its blessing to our wandering. Fruit tree limbs lie broken, scattered about the overgrown yard like the forgotten legs on some childhood doll. In the weathered barn, holes in the wood are the only testimony to cow managers and the boy's basketball goal. Stories, sinkholes, and mud-filled ponds are now the only family here. Past ruin, in slow cautious spirals wisteria climbs toward evening sky and tucking our identities in pockets, we leave. -L. Bradley Law ^ a 37 ...


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