The farmhouse is gone,
you can see where it was,
a level spot in the pinestraw,
the spring overgrown with cress.
The barn is gone, the coop, the crib,
the swaybacked shed, all gone,
the field beside the creek
now a parking lot for visitors
who walk inside the covered bridge
still spanning the shallow rapids
where we fished for bluegill
with 'crawlers we picked at night
after rain with flashlights quick
before they snapped back into the earth
where everything was before,
where you used to be.
