Brenda Kay Ledford
You know the old logging road,
the one behind the red house,
the one winding past Mama’s garden
where morning glories climb the corn;
and you know the path reeks
with trash and broken pines weep
where the loggers butchered trees.
And a mourning dove moans
from the spring where you drew
water for tea and light oozes
through the black gum like bile
as the shadow of a crow passes
over trillium that will soon fade
away like all of us.
You know the Shewbird Mountain
quivers beneath the Thunder Moon
as the mining company
creeps up the mountain
to grind her bones into dust.
(first published in American Society: What Poets See)