Daisies poke through the broken asphalt, rage against their dying.
Great-Grandpa Hamp’s farm tumbled down and drowned in the sadness of Georgia red clay.
Two centuries later, developers desecrated the land and built a mixed-use development (that nobody needed) there.
Me, a lone descendant, stand, and from the edge of the road throw stones at the realization that nobody thought to find me, that nobody thought. . .anyone would care.
At the corner of a cotton field I feel like a cliché of a prodigal child.
Came back way too late to take a stand.
Jenny W. Andrews copyright 2022
Jenny Grace's Poetry and Creative Writing Techniques 