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.