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.