A Hammer of Nails
They are the color of oats, the hills
I travel through, over winding trails
And rocky terrain, the slender birch
Lighting the way. And yet,
As if by some miracle, the church
Where we were married still stands.
But the farmhouses, in the valley
Below, have been abandoned,
Leaving nothing to take their place,
Nothing for the future.
Everything is a race
To the bottom. Here, we pledged
To love and obey, but that was before
We lost the child, and hedged
Our bet, with a hammer of nails.