Bastion

I walk tar-chipped roads past rotting logs

and thick, chokecherry groves to the field

by Miller’s Pond. 

     Within the green and blue

echoing world of cornstalks and sky, I’m lost. 

Lost, but certain that corn will end—sure

of stirring switchgrass, wild bergamot,

milkweed and prairie dock next to stone-stairs

that lead to tarnished steel. 

       My childhood

train-bridge looms, and once again I’m small,

looking skyward towards graffiti and rust.

I want the view to be the same: brick homes

missing shingles, sun-scorched corn, tracks

edged in brush, paint-peeled factories

and windswept oaks.

                                  Last time, I climbed this bridge

to say goodbye.  But now, planting my feet

on crumbled steel, I need both black and white—

both tar and Queen Anne’s Lace, timeworn brick
and cloudless sky, the rust beside new blooms.