Poem: Pioneer Village by Maureen Ash
Pioneer Village
I’ve always liked this sort of thing,
history, the olden days, pretending
I live here, this cabin or soddy
or small white frame house spare
with just some nails for their hand-sewn jackets,
a shelf for stained crockery, one or two cups.
A street of old buildings collected
by buffs, assembled as if this were a town
and we walk from the old print shop
to the general store, past the livery.
Some buildings hold photos taken
In the building itself, years ago,
men leaning on display cases
or standing by the barber chair,
the black in the old pictures serving only
to distinguish the white.
How simple it was, how hard they worked
these pioneers our
ancestors, how grateful I am to have this
easier life because of them but today
I see for the first time, first time ever
the paint, the people in the photos,
those who assembled the collection, all of us
enjoying, eating as if with our ice cream
the idea that everyone, as we did, started from here
unchained.
Maureen Ash
Comments are closed