“Trappalachia” the bathroom stall said. “Land of the noonday fentanyl OD.” That is the story of loss, told in White-out, But this is a land of remaking, too. The land of hay stored, drying for winter, Out of the rain, under an overhang, The gift of an abandoned gas station. The land of burley tobacco hanged up, Hidden, curing for cigarette habits In the old Sulphur Springs Methodist Church. Nothing goes to waste here long in this possible land. The world may use and pass you by, but this too is a gift, Holding our gaze inside a simpler horizon. What can you make of a life left alone?
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