Your old house stands empty

And half fallen, like one of those barns

Awaiting one last windstorm,

and the rain and the earth,

slowly swallowing your edges,

chipping paint, warping  stairs.

Nothing left of you but ,

spirit and ghost and ancestor.


So very long since that house

breathed your same air

but I stop by expecting you

and a cup of tea

and a masterpiece

and the weight of your world.


If you could see your old place in Sleepy Hollow­­––

The thick trees grown over,

The blackberry bushes gnarled and curled,

And all that wildness you planted in us.  Thriving.

About Margaret Elysia Garcia

Margaret Elysia Garcia primarily writes fiction, essays and poetry from a remote corner of the Sierra Nevada. She's currently working on a non-fiction book regarding body positivity through plus-sized alternative modeling .She blogs here and at Throwing Chanclas. And is the co-founder of Pachuca Productions a Latina owned microtheatre in Plumas County, California
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