The Old Road Home

The ragged road turned, like rickrack,
to the house, sadly falling away.
Gone, the spring house tucked into the hill;
the dam where the old pond laid.

Gone, is the field near the country store
where laughter rang at day's end
with no one heeding home calls
'til night rays began to descend.

Our secret garden is no longer there,
grown over with scrub pine trees;
just barren fields where treasures were found;
arrowheads and millstone pieces.

I wonder if Solomon's Seal still grows
or dogwoods bloom in the back,
or the garden space and cherry tree
are still near the railroad track.

There are no friendly faces to guide me.
I can't go home anymore.
But I'll keep the nuggets of memories
as the ragman closes the door.