asserting welcome
on both sides of our property are wooden signs:
"Welcome, Way To Park," with an arrow,
"Welcome, Way To Road," also with an arrow,
each showing the way,
all written with natural sticks,
as if each message is from the Earth herself,
my parents built this cabin
in the middle of the old wagon road,
hard by the quickly dropping creek,
known for generations as "Mill Creek"
for virtually every house along it had its own tub mill
for turning dry kernel corn into meal,
and thus the bounty of the fields into meals,
these signs are radical,
piercing to the roots of what we should be about,
asserting the openness of welcome
instead of the shutting down of a selfish "private,"
my mother and I put up the "welcome" signs,
though one brother of mine felt strongly
that property is owned and is really just for the owner,
declaring that when Mother moved to a nursing home
he would take the signs down himself,
whereas we believe that the land and the present
are but borrowed from the future,
as if what we have now is a trust
and that we are stewards,
charged to hold all together
rather than just self-indulge.
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