Garden on Albee Hill

Upon this hillside where ghosts
speak louder than the villagers
below, we slice through
sod and shake- loose soil to finally
unearth a toy soldier in
splintered red coat.
No wood or stone
speaks of homesteads here, only
elderberry hopelessly tangled in hops,
a chokecherry, a yellow-eyed rose
gone wild.
We hack and shake, press
firm the mottled seeds, and
tender transplants, while
new air stirs the
ancient sugar maple, and
descendants of crows
cast shadows on
our plot.

– Candace Mingins, c. 2005