The gravel road curved 'round a ridge,
and there, wrapped in antiquity, it stood,
And feeling betwitched, I felt the music
And listened, rapt, to it symphonic history
Where it sang across the years at Mars Hill Woods.
Then I stepped into the musical score
Of one hudred and fifty years gone by
Because it was magic to walk through a door
Where history had walked on hardwood floors
Worn smooth by years of hard-worn lives.
And that mid-noon beside a country track
In a log cabin church where shutters hung back,
I sniffed the scent of new-mown grass
Sheared short where it wrapped
Around tombstones, bent and cracked.
And later, I told this with a sigh
When all that stood was charcoal shell
Of the dreams these pioneers lived by.
When all seemed lost, a few of us chose to try
To rebuild those dreams in this country vale.
The path we chose took twists and turns
None of us expected. Friendship was one.
Generosity another. Then came family.
By the time the church had been rebuilt
We were sisters and brothers.