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,