Beyond the Edges In the Ukraine by Kathaleen Donnelly

​An old man stood on a tall grassy hill, staring 
into the distance. His blue jeans and knapsack 
implied he was not on business, just passing 
through. He was looking for something.

In his youth, His family had kept a small village 
going. He knew this, he had helped. They were 
the quiet folk behind the scenes, made
everything work.  

Wood collected, cut for fires, seeds gathered, 
sowed, crops weeded, watered — harvested; 
no one went hungry. Graves dug, prayers said, 
bodies buried. New generations took their place.

He had traveled alone, no signs to follow.
Sunflowers grew everywhere the eye could see 
randomly in fields along train tracks, 
no one watching over them.

Remnants of a few small structures, he looked
for something familiar, sure he was in the right
spot. Now open fields, dirt roads, setting sun. 
How could it all be gone?

He heard voices in his mind from old town’s folk, 
horses neighing in their barns, birds flying by
in flocks, swooping down, disappearing in 
the brush for supper, sleep.

How could anyone want this to disappear?
What purpose could it possible serve? 
Were there alternatives?  
Did anyone ask?