In the Treads of Boots

When I say each house is a country all its own, I mean the oak trees are tied into knots by old resentments and forgotten names. I mean that the fences are bug eaten and pockmarked. 

Wire fences sag and stagger between neighbors. I see the tattered edges of flags on porches, iron oxide against the sky, overbaked by the sun. 

Thunder shakes the house until the wood beams in the sun, until the foundation cracks. It’s not enough to stop the water reclaiming what the levees took. And this is where memory lies, open in the storm.

K.M. Crane is a writer and poet from (Northern) California. When not writing, she spends time with healthcare policy and federal regulations.

See more of her work in 7.2 and 7.2 and 8.3

Previous | Next