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lucius-furiusPoems
The golfers leave early -- September or October -- it's just you and the hickories, the asters, the goldenrod -- and the reservoir -- the ripples shimmering eastward.    Steamshovels and bulldozers labored here one summer, digging a hole for the water, piling up the earth.    You walk on the bank they made, seeing beyond the golf course -- the houses and barns, the swampy gray-brown fields of goldenrod, the railroad tracks, the pines.    Your thoughts plunge to the reservoir's bottom then turn racing to the farthest field.
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Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 3:27 PM UTC
Reservoir (Day)
The golfers leave early -- September or October -- it's just you and the hickories, the asters, the goldenrod -- and the reservoir -- the ripples shimmering eastward.    Steamshovels and bulldozers labored here one summer, digging a hole for the water, piling up the earth.    You walk on the bank they made, seeing beyond the golf course -- the houses and barns, the swampy gray-brown fields of goldenrod, the railroad tracks, the pines.    Your thoughts plunge to the reservoir's bottom then turn racing to the farthest field.
Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem: humanist-art.org/old-site/audio/SoF_016_res_d.MP3 .
#water#life#reservoir
lucius-furius
Written by
lucius-furius
67/M/Evanston, IL
Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 3:27 PM UTC
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