Wednesday, April 26, 2017
I got built ninety years ago by
sweating stinking swearing men.
For decades every kind of train
screeched on my back. No more.
Winters here can be pretty bleak
but wildflowers always come back.
Empty nests have a forlorn look
til the songbirds return in early May.
The swamp is quiet but soon frogs
will take up their monotonous chant.
My back remains unbroken but only
ghost locomotives rattle these rails.
From Ordinary Things: Poems From a Walk in Early Spring
Posted by Ralph Fletcher at 10:09 PM