More By This Poet
On the crowded hill bordering the mill,
across the shallow stream, nearer than they seem,
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.
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,