Opal Pool

Photo by Elan Mudrow

Photo by Elan Mudrow

The roads are so young

Where old mines have been forgotten.

They stumble through the forest

Uneven, full of ruts, washouts.

Men have come with tools

Left them, returned with better.

Implements that shine silver

Rust resistant, until rains never stop.

The goal is to cut clean, to sprinkle

Shaped earth, decorating the contours

Of river, pools, and growth.

We, the ones, who yell along trails

Echoing off ancient volcanic movements

Slip five dollars

Inside an envelope–

license plate number–

Scrawled in human–

Bleached white envelopes–

Connect with the eerie reflection

Of how we carve, paint, sing, make roads–

And yes, the art of the outhouse.

The parking lot must be made bigger

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16 Responses to Opal Pool

  1. TalkaholicMe says:

    Sounds like God’s planning it for us.

    Like

  2. Judi Risser says:

    Sad….

    Like

  3. sanberdooboy says:

    this poem connects me to the camping i have done over many years, how getting out on an old road or on a trail provides a narrative of people and our interaction with the land. i hadn’t thought of those experiences in quite that way until i read your poem. so thank you for that and for your first sentence, which hooked me.

    Like

  4. SamuelMb says:

    Wonderful poem man. Thank you for sharing.

    Like

  5. vivachange77 says:

    Wonderful mix of past and future. I like your ending with your observation about the parking lot.

    Like

  6. Grandtrines says:

    Reblogged this on Orthometry.

    Like

  7. Grandtrines says:

    Reblogged this on Still Another Photoblog.

    Liked by 1 person

  8. Mr Nothing says:

    Poetry: the supreme art of the heart.
    You have a wonderful blog.
    Thank you for visiting nothingcluelesslost.com

    Like

  9. Reblogged this on TJ Writes, Etc. and commented:
    … time passes … sigh

    Liked by 1 person

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