WHO WE WERE

 

 

Frozen in the folds of time:
blue smoke, oak flames,
gathered neighbors fed
when the work was done.

For 90 years, Cutlers drove cattle
to Rowell Meadow until 1953—
everybody came for my mother’s
father’s whiskey, meat and beans.

To get along, we will forgive
our ill-behavior, overlook
our extravagances, but sadly
we will forget who we were.

 

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