By Tamara (Dicus) Hillman
How can this be—in one fell swoop,
only memories remain
of places I so cherished
and would visit once again?
Now only devastation,
ash, and cinders lie
where once I spent my childhood—
now smoldering, hot, and dry.
Homes that once were landmarks
are now just chimneys tall—
statues where those houses stood
now bricks and mortar all.
A small town—nonexistent,
caught by the fiery beast
at the end of our dear valley
where we’d be headed east.
Orchards gone forever,
abundance of fruit lost—
livelihood of harvest masters
who will surely count the cost.
The river with its tree line—
colors marking seasons each,
boasts now of only scorched rock
along its barren beach.
Fields I ran and played in
are burned beyond belief,
and all I feel when viewing
is sorrow, and much grief.
Trees we climbed as children
to view the world below
are only blackened sticks now
not fit for man, nor crow.
Aspen and great willows,
shading swimming hole,
are crumbled to the ground now,
and it hurts my very soul.
How green my valley once was
with flowers on the hills—
serene and peaceful respite
where I forgot my ills.
Open range where cattle
could graze the summer thru’
now strewn with bloated carcass’—
much more than just a few.
Home of my youth and schooling—
the place where I was born
resembles now a war zone—
tattered, burnt, and torn.
Our children won’t remember
what my mind retains so dear
for it will take a generation
to replenish all, I fear.
Locked in those faded photos,
and in the oldster’s eye,
the valley will remain pristine
as future years pass by.
Hillman was born in Twisp (to Earl and Anne Dicus) and grew up in the Methow Valley. She currently lives in Sun City West, Arizona.
