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