Geraldine Connolly

They covered my mother's farm
with drilling rigs,

knocking down the house
like a stack of blocks.

So we must live now
without the hayfield,

without the silo, the corncrib,
the orchard, the creek.

We will breathe the summery
air only in dreams

where we make soup with
water and bits of stone.

A plume of smoke
escapes from the barn.

Since someone has forgotten
to latch the gate,

a thief has entered the garden
grabbing carrots, ripping

onions from their beds
while we watch from

our distant dwelling
dreaming the past still exists

floating on its raft of broken bread.