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On a deep cold winter's day
with January just begun
I step out of abode's front door
to greet the chilly rising sun
just as I did yesterday.
What might this day have in store?

The brushy hill that faces me
quivers in the northern breeze
and like the deep woods to my back
stands stark and bereft of all leaves,
bare bones revealed for all to see
from poplar's light gray to walnut black.

Beyond the hill a highway flows,
a stream that hardly ever ceases,
louder now with all leaves gone.
Soon they'll be reduced to moldy pieces
like under where the wild plum grows
toward which spotted fawns are drawn.

I now turn to walk down the steep hill
through oaks which know much than me
where I convince myself there is no noise
where I can pretend that of age I am free.
Soon I reach a favorite tiny rill
with mossy bank dark as turquoise.

Here traffic fades to a slight sound
low enough to be (almost) ignored.
This tiny paradise I often visit
when with people I've become bored;
to me an almost sacred ground
shared with too few people, I admit.

But as I find a seat upon a log
beside the clear and tiny spring
thoughts of "progress" fill my mind.
It can't be stopped by anything.
It grows like a late evening fog.
To old men's wishes it is blind.

I contemplate this spring as clear as glass
knowing this eden will one day pass.

Style / type: 
Structured: Western
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
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