Sitting on the swing
a little creaky
a lot of memories
watching that great hydrogen inferno
slowly set across the Piedmont
I kind of like the way these
crumbling barns show the
contrast of fading hues
of our farming roots
against the hum of expansion
the lapping tongue of progression
like rough cut brush strokes against
this crisp, colorful creation
I feel the friction
between this changing age
like plate tectonics, something's got to give
because I grew up snapping snaps
and popping butterbeans
chasing tadpoles and
spitting watermelon seeds
picking berries off the vine
and making love in the fields
where fireflies dance and sing in
optical glamor
but the fields are fallow now
burnt offering of fossil fuel sacrifice
we're forgetting the songs of the woods
songs of common sense
psalms of decency
this is a concrete jungle
moving in waves
across a plastic page
I saw the beauty of life
in the fragility of a thirsty hummingbird
hovering with just enough grace to purse
my lips into a curve
sitting on the swing, warm summer evening
sipping down on our concoction of atonement and actuality
I can taste the simplicity and languor
begging
yearning to return.
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