When we were children,
we played among the wrecks
of old cars and horse-drawn
wagons with wooden spokes
that hemmed the orchards
that sustained us—families
scattered round distant towns
we could visit
with ripe imaginations.
Bigger now, cities spreading
like amoeba ingesting farms
and one another, like wildfires burning
closer as convenient conflagrations
that have erased the landmarks
where we hung our memories.
It could be creeping senility
that I embrace, a watercolor wash
across pastoral landscapes
rather than the spinning pace
of progress—perpetual motion
like the galaxies of space.
drycrikjournal 