morning poem, December 5, 2016

 

 

 

First I sweep the rooms and halls, like a thousand times before

Then I mop and rinse and polish, see the shine upon the floor

 

Oft’ times I failed to notice it, the grain of ancient oak

That grew a hundred years ago, then cut by hardy folk

 

Who lived to build this little town, constructing things of worth

And kept the winters warm inside, by bringing coal from earth

 

If you think about it much at all, if you take time to consider

It’s almost magic what was saved, and how it fits together

 

We live on riches made by those, who’ve gone to their rewards

The highways and the roads their work, the Chevys and the Fords

 

A moment’s quiet time alone, to weigh it all and ponder

Is tonic for the jaded soul.  Look closely and remember.

 

copyright 2016

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