Poetry Journal January 28, 2024
Rain sweeps across the meadows of Secaucus, swelling
waterways that weave through the reeds where an old mill once stood, now a
thing of the distant past, as the people who built it and their sons, have long
left this mortal coil, geese and crows, egrets and such fill those places where
the remains of cedar trees still stand, stark figures against the rain-drenched
sky, a defiance against the perpetual march of what we mistakenly call
progress, which does its best to stamp out what once was, in order to build
thing that should never be – each new generation needing to leave its mark on
the world, like slashes of an ax in the trunk of trees who might otherwise
outlive us all.
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