Ghost Trees

I dreamed we still owned the farm
but the sagging barn had been
covered with corrugated nickel
and the mud and swill with shiny plastic.
The farm was given to me as a gift
and I roamed through the old rooms
filled with discarded sofas
sagging mattresses, soiled toys.
I’m writing this as I stare
at palm trees almost lost in fog.
I’d trade these ghost trees for the past,
a blurry limb for a clean row of corn.
I’d walk down the road to the creek
and stand under green willows
near fresh creek water
to listen for the rustle of wings,
to watch the small frogs leap.

GERALDINE CONNOLLY

Geraldine Connolly, born and raised in Pennsylvania, has published four poetry collections, including Province of Fire and Aileron. Her work has appeared in Poetry, the Gettysburg Review, and The Georgia Review. She has received fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Breadloaf Writers Conference, and the Cafritz Foundation. She lives in Tucson, Arizona.