The old hickory dropped
Nut-brown seeds that we’d smash
Our fingers trying to crack – the filled dirt innards
Became our pretend dinner before
Dad bandaged up the bloodied tips.
Now it’s dead and dead cold from
Standing in the Florida heat with no
Blanket or break from its production.
The fallen branches were chainsawed to
Smoker bits at Christmas or Labor Day.
We never thanked it with water or words
For the shade and meals and memory-wounds.
Mushrooms have invaded our yard
Except the patched dirt that’s been
Driven on for far too long. Nothing lives there.
Nothing lives long enough for our children’s children anymore.
We dig and build atop and strip the soil before it’s passed on.
The flowers he gives his wife – when a newborn is
Borne by her alone for twenty odd years – wilt and crumble within a week.
The baby could die within a week. She lives instead.

Twenty odd years is how long it takes a yard to die.
Twenty odd years is barely a lifetime.

– Abbey L.W.

Author’s Note: “Hickory Smoked Yards” delves into the bittersweet nostalgia of youth and the lasting effects of environmental change.