West Virginia Twice Poem by hollie ash

It is the spring of 1976 and the hard ground is dark brown.
The trees are leafless, and the road is ankle-deep with ruts.
The teal ford pickup, windows and tailgate permanently down, sits idle.
My mom’s hair is brown and long, her smile strained by hard times.
She wears an earth-toned turtleneck and an oversized wool coat.
My dad’s overalls and boots are mud-caked, and he sports a long, dark beard.
His eyes understand the earth; it shows on his weathered hands.
From upwind comes Uncle Billy’s laugh, guttural and comforting.
Aunt Terri is trudging up the drive, the aroma of freshly-baked bread following her.
Tails wagging, Himnaton and Poco scamper about, sniffing cold trails and gnawing deer bones.
The single-story house, its rickety porch leaning forward, sits on a sloping hill.
Smoke curls out of the chimney, yellowing the overcast sky.
The concrete root cellar sits to the right, and the tin-roofed spring house is beside that.
Out front is the holly tree, its two-pronged trunk strong,
and its’ branches thick with prickly green leaves and red berries.

It is the summer of 2006 and the green grass is knee-high.
The trees are full of leaves and new fruit, and the road is barely visible.
The black Toyota, even in 4-wheel-drive, stalls just after the vacant mailbox post.
My hair is long and brown and my eyes search for something to recognize.
I am wearing an earth-toned shirt and my mom’s turquoise necklace.
My guide, Ray, has a thick mountain accent, with a trace of New Jersey.
His eyes understand the earth; it shows on his weathered hands.
From upwind, I hear the rustle of trees and the whippoorwill’s song.
I trudge into the pink rhododendron patch, the aroma following me out the other side.
Over the ridge, dogs bark. They hear and smell our unfamiliarity from there.
The slope of the hill is the same, but the house is gone, save for a few stray boards.
Smoke curls from Ray’s cigarette, but it has no effect on the view.
The root cellar has collapsed inward, and the spring exits the earth without shelter.
Still, the holly tree stands, its two-pronged trunk strong,
and its’ branches thick with prickly green leaves and red berries.