A Tale of Bodie . . .

What is left when the gold’s played out?
When the vein of silver is gone?
Weathered boards and vacant floors
Packing up and moving on
Empty shafts on lonely hills
Sit silent in the sun
Hollow windows tell a tale
Of a town whose time is done

There are echos in barren places
Where shadow sounds are cast
Whispers down the mine shafts
Voices from the past . . .
They seek for something simple
Something we can give
They ask to have their stories told
That their truth might always live
Some speak through ruins left standing
And ask that their tales be known
Some reach through generations
And speak through blood and bone

I’m a weaver of words, a spinner of tales
This tale I’ll weave on a loom
That my brother has strung with the warping threads
All ready for story to bloom
His warp, my weft, we answer the call
That sings through our blood clean and clear
So I’ll tell you a tale of Bodie,
When Ed Loose came for Christmas one year . . .

©Edwina Peterson Cross