There is An Old Road Here
A poem that will probably never become a children's book, and so I leave it here for you to enjoy.
Even though I don’t have a new children’s book yet in publication, and I’m still riding high from last October’s release of Big & Little Meet in the Middle, I am constantly working on new ideas and tightening up older manuscripts. On our walk today, down our little road across old farmland, I was reminded of a poem I wrote last fall, in that place, honoring some of the ancient landmarks the previous farmers have left behind. That the family that owned the land here was one of the few free Black families in the area makes this acreage even more special, to my mind. The Mondore family’s cemetery is hidden somewhere in the woods around here. We haven’t been able to find it yet.
Here’s the poem:
There is an old road here
You won’t find it on maps
but you can still walk its route
if you know who to ask.
Ask the gnarled apple tree
whose bark reads like a book
it grew from a seed
and still drinks from the brook.
If you feel the rock wall
tumbled down but still strong
you’ll touch calloused hands
stacking stones the day long.
This old model T
paused in fierce winter weather
but what should have been minutes
turned into forever
In the bark of this oak
which grew first on this land
you can read some old names
carved here by a young hand
Over there’s a stone bridge
which can barely be seen
but was built with such skill
that it still spans the stream.
The road is harder to see now
but wait ‘til December
when the milkweed retreats
the forest remembers.
There’s an arrowhead here
But I doubt we could find it
Just knowing it’s near
Is enough to remind us
that before this old road
and before the rock wall
and before the old car
years ahead of them all
there was a boy just your age
with a powerful name
who blazed the first trail here
while he hunted for game.
He lived over that mountain
on the green valley floor
he sat just where you’re sitting
wondering what came before.
But he also knew well
when the sun dips this low
and the crickets start singing
that it’s past time to go.
When the fireflies blink on
in the gathering gloam,
the old voices grow quite
but still lead the way home.