69. IRON JUNK

IRON JUNK
My line of iron junk secures you -
anchored as you are to a hillside along the river,
seeking shades of ample night and distant Indian fire
from the Delaware's needy bosom. Everything we celebrate
becomes our haunted heritage. Such are the rights of man.
You cannot undo me, as I cannot undo you -
two selfsame servants, we aim to serve each other.
Mankind's ancient clog dreams to break away,
everywhere, to burst the Spring and Summer forth.
You will see. You know.
Bees and hummingbirds, hawks and egrets,
frogs and eagles, turtles, and those awkward eels.
The princely heat of humid nights and sudden cracks
of thunder and lightning will arouse you, deep in slumber,
to that sudden realization that all of life goes on.
Please do not let the others fool you
into thinking false is real, or that accumulation
is the measure of the man. Iron junk collects, rainwater
runs to rust, wooden beams destroy themselves with
mildewed rot. Bugs and worms come home to haunt.
Love this life, but never let your eyes forget:
There is more than what we see to what we see.