All along the back roads

in Virginia

(and elsewhere too, the scenery a patchwork quilt 

stitching states together, miles of wood and pasture

gingham strips in greens and browns)

the houses rise up from the ground, planted years ago, crops forgotten in the avalanche

of mega malls and mini marts,

looking like the women, old and tired

who live there:

some are tall and pinched, stern, severe, roofs like wings of hair set under the dryer at a beauty shop that hasn’t changed

since 1952

others settled into themselves, comfortable and soft, porches wide and welcoming

happy to have you home

no matter where you’ve been

And some are broken down

by sorrow and neglect, folded inward at the middle, shattered windows staring out, waiting patiently for someone

to remember their regret, come up the path and sweep the steps

and stay a little while.