ONE THOUSAND SMALL
MOMENTS AGO
(the forest and the rock)
Just me, just, it was, alone. I walked
that old Indian path now called a road
by which to get home. I tried to imagine
a world little known; the woods and
the forest, the rocks and the loam. It's
hard to imagine - for those living in
deep towns - how things once got
started. This was all that there was.
-
The sandy graft where the water
stays still, the rocks jutting proudly,
from off that hill. Once there were
but a few; now there are thousands.
Everyone's fallen away. Roads, and
the towns taken by their names.
-
Descriptions have become passe. Now
it's Rodney Road, or April Way. One
million violets may have once there
bloomed, yet, stricken now away by
a human broom the roadway instead
prospers on its own glowing passage.
-
I once garnered messages for no one
at all; my home was my parish and
the street where I lived was my limit.
All that was long ago...yet I wonder
still how different was I from anyone
else: Lost in a wonder of self, was I
alone just me? Or part of everyone else
I'd see? Do I measure out my misery
in these little strips of memory?
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