poem of the day, October 24, 2015

Not far beneath the mulch and manicure

This place bears the marks of three generations past.

Here and there, houses with slate roofs

That no one here could afford to replace

Wrought-iron gates and fragments of fences

Standing alone, vine mounded in what are now vacant lots

Brick walls – look closely – laid in patterns known by immigrant masons

Long forgotten now.

I’ve seen a few of these bricks;

the red bricks of which this place was made

Half buried in alleys or at the edge of the woods

They bear the stamp of a local kiln, long gone.

Plants on hillsides in steep banks that the mowers cannot reach

Overgrown now, these shrubs and vines were once planted and tended

By those who came before

Who saw in this place, by the look of their remnants

Beauty and peace

They brought the aesthetics of a regency estate

To these clouded hills.

The first (and only?) aristocrats of this little town

Who cut down the forest

And found the level places

And built homes with tall windows

That overlooked the long, broad valley

To see and be seen.