Only when the moon is just so,
Casting silvery shadows among the
Grays and blues
Do the outlines of the old cabins appear.
Stone piles and ruined walls,
So easily traced at midnight,
Invisible in the harsh yellows and greens
I was told there were slave cabins here
Long, long ago
When this was one big farm.
They lived here, many to a cabin.
That’s what I was told anyway
By my brother.
But he was older and always lied.
If not though, this is where they lived.
As kids we found treasures back there-
Ruins of buckles, nails and buttons.
At night we’d build campfires and squat here,
Telling made-up stories of their long-ago lives.
Later there were bones in the corn
where desecrated graves were
My brother put a stack of them under
Told me I was now haunted
By old slave ghosts.
I didn’t really believe him then
But now I don’t know.
No bones left out in the corn, I’m sure.
But if there were,
This would be the time to find them.