Albion, Wash.



There really is a place

with that name.  I know,

I live there, and it wasn’t

settled by giants.  In the graveyard

there isn’t one more than six feet.

Some are smaller.   Young things died

sooner back then.

 From the center

of town, you can see it

as you pick up your mail,

one of the last stands of pine

in the Palouse.  The graves

in-between make pines seem

darker.  Spring wheat makes trees

more of a shadow, old growth

against new.

first published in Wind Row,  Spring, 1984.

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About johnsmithiiimxiii

John Smith, IIMXIII is the avatar of an award winning poet, artist, etc. who still lives in the Palouse country of the Pacific NW. He has not received much notice with his prose . . . but as his avatar, I hope that he keeps plugging along.

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