There is this small river
shaped like a gutter
near my childhood home.
It runs along a centenarian railroad,
made of dry wood (with funny knots in it).
Walking the same rusty rails,
near the small river:
years have passed:
Gone,
bumblebees buzzing around
with their yellow holy halos
of important pollen;
Gone,
the jolly grasshoppers
basking in delight
in hardy sunny grass;
Gone,
small bushes growing
here and there quietly
sheltering little lives.
Gone,
the marvelous scent
of clear waters, tadpoles,
lizards and salamanders.
Gone,
all the treasures
of simplicity when it’s summer
and you’re ten years old.
Gone,
the strange apple tree
hidden from adults,
known only of young insiders.
Gone,
all improvised buckets:
bags, half-bottles, old pans,
to keep frogs safe at home.
Gone,
rumors of dangerous snakes,
bravely hunted down,
though never found.
Gone,
the odd
garage
of brown metal
Gone
gone
gone
(the city-snake ate me raw)
Now there’s moss
in the dried-up gutter.
It looks like
a pitiful half-tube.
All aroud is war:
Rocks, stones, torn iron bars, orange rusty wires, hideous construction site abandoned like an unwanted child, brambles threatening and stifling the railroad, dirty polystyrene, slabs, a dead stray cat, glass, disused signs, washed out obscene magazines, disgusting bags, electric cables, empty alcohol cans like a junky Hansel’s breadcrumbs, sand, dead wood slaughtered, caps, papers that used to be important, water bottles that don’t quench any thirst, fragments of plastics, deserted shells, night-time shadows in full day.
In my solitude,
I saw a small violet.
Header photograph © Jason D. Ramsey.
About the Author
