Poem: Pioneer Village by Maureen Ash

Pioneer Village

I’ve always liked this sort of thing,

history, the olden days, pretending

I live here, this cabin or soddy

or small white frame house spare 

with just some nails for their hand-sewn jackets,

a shelf for stained crockery, one or two cups.

A street of old buildings collected

by buffs, assembled as if this were a town

and we walk from the old print shop 

to the general store, past the livery.

Some buildings hold photos taken

In the building itself, years ago, 

men leaning on display cases

or standing by the barber chair, 

the black in the old pictures serving only

to distinguish the white.

How simple it was, how hard they worked 

these pioneers our

ancestors, how grateful I am to have this

easier life because of them but today

I see for the first time, first time ever

the paint, the people in the photos, 

those who assembled the collection, all of us 

enjoying, eating as if with our ice cream 

the idea that everyone, as we did, started from here

unchained.

Maureen Ash