Railroad Tracks
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