Thursday, February 3, 2011




Melancholy, my wife calls this land,

amid wails of sandhill crane

and purple autumn breathing on the evening marsh.

There are no people here,

only wandering roads

and bulging pastures

and grey horses that leave

ancient barns to greet you

As if the life of this place were frozen long ago.

But if she could see

the burgeoning children we were,

creating worlds from marsh and decay...

Entropy assails us without pause,

and is fought only with

joy and work.

Oblivion may have triumphed for now,

but a look at books and projects from long ago

hints that this place has long been,

and can again be.

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