Brushwood School House, Sonnet #503

Photo courtesy of ACRES Land Trust.

In ‘03, they built this one room school

And hundreds more throughout the state.

I sit fidgeting on a three-legged stool,

Drawing my figures with chalk and slate.

My mother drives me three miles each way

Unless it’s a planting or harvest day.

They’re mostly gone now, torn down,

Become hazards for ghost-hunting teens.

People live in some, rebuilt, far from town.

Brushwood hasn’t fallen, though it leans.

I was the oldest. The teacher looked nice.

Her favorites were the smallest ones.

When I was 18, she looked at me twice.

We wed. I died at Marne. She schooled our sons.

My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase. Click here:
My Human Disguise.