Thursday, March 19, 2020

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.

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