Far off the path, once for wagons, horses and sturdy legs, now returned to green/growth and rut/ravaged into a faint trail I find the place spoken of, the necessary spring source, hidden in tangled vines/web, secreted away below a stone surround snugged in emerald moss; now briefly guarded by March’s pale bluebell sentinels.

The only evidence of human touch: the dry-stacked surround and haunting creaks…muffled thuds….underfoot of roof/tin buried beneath a century’s damp humus. No foundation stones, roof rafters or siding survive; all salvaged or burned or rotted away by nature’s plan.

Searching for origins of myth; family tales hinted of this place; of skimpy, poor raisings and violent pasts; of one, if word of mouth can be believed, being strung by his neck in this, his yard, from this massive oak, in front of family for desertion from the war that cleaved both family flesh and a nation’s harmony myth. Voices still cry from beneath the ground, some say, but I only hear flora sway and taste the water’s cooling release; the taste savored by the one hanged in this, his once yard.

Mountain laurel, head high, further extends the shade and boast purest porcelain, blood/pink-tinged, blossoms. Minute Bird-foot violets peer …surprised…from the knurled feet of the oak that lives with shame of complicity. The earth thrust spiraling fern/fronds upward in rampant arrays, prayerfully uncoiling, reaching for dappled pale light, offering beauty’s recompense for the chaos and raging rants of her progeny.