By Joshua Mehigan
Nothing has changed. They have a welcome sign,
a hill with cows and a white house on top,
a mall and grocery store where people shop,
a diner where some people go to dine.
It is the same no matter where you go,
and downtown you will find no big surprises.
Each fall the dew point falls until it rises.
White snow, green buds, green lawn, red leaves, white snow.
This is all right. This is their hope. And yet,
though what you see is never what you get,
it does feel somehow changed from what it was.
Is it the people? Houses? Fields? The weather?
Is it the streets? Is it these things together?
Nothing here ever changes, till it does.
Source: Poetry (February 2010)
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On the crowded hill bordering the mill,
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they wait and will be waiting.
Rain. The small smilax is the same to the fly
as the big bush of lilacs exploding nearby.
The rain may be abating.
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By noon we could discern their massive coils
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