Looking at the long wooden boardwalk
threading through a wooded wetlands
takes me back to the fjords of Gros Morne.
Newfoundland, with its sparse inhabitants,
confounded us with its odd houses without stairs
to a front door high above the ground.
In Twenty-Nine Palms, we were perplexed
with the eery abandoned homestead houses
scattered in the high desert.
Now, the nearby Joshua trees, my totem plants,
are dying and
will be empty shells soon enough.
I love the way this travels. The sadness in it lingers.
there is a sense of subtle precision in this piece that leaves me feeling that the poem says much more than the words which form it – and that it what good poetry is to me.