Green tunnel over gray asphalt roads.
Warm spring day.
History reaches up from the rich soil and ties my heart
In strands of whiskered moss.
I feel the pull of time,
The past blending into the present seamlessly.
It may just be me.
Others see a place like any other place,
Like the place where they live,
I seem to see the ghosts.
Layers of people,
Generation on generation,
Wool trousers behind mule plows,
Bonnets and muslin,
Fedoras and starched white shirts.
Old ghosts and new,
Like paintings on glass,
Layered one on another.
All of it,
The constant, persistent life of it,
Pulls on me,
We take our place as tomorrows ghosts.
To old oaks and
Green tunnels over gray asphalt.