Yeah, it’s less than you think, what you see.
It is nothing more than the debris we bring,
like the pianos settlers dragged over the Great Divide,
deepening the ruts for the next wave of pilgrims.
It’s not insubstantial, this debris,
after all we have made our stand on its heap;
but we need to keep in mind its impermanence
and be prepared to come back again and again
to plant a row of something –
if for no other reason but to keep the thistles at bay.
Debris
17 Friday Jan 2014
Posted poems
in
Our own impermanence lines up with our debris I suppose. Will it all even out in the end?
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I hope it does, otherwise the end is going to be very ugly.
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I agree…
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this: ‘after all we have made our stand on its heap’
indeed.
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intriguing. Of course I am now picturing a growing mound of debris under my feet. No wonder I get wobbly sometimes.
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