Flourishing among the padlocked gates
And dwindling streets with houses here and there
In a district zoned for industry
Are amber waves of fruits and vegetables
In little gardens and a few plowed fields,
The work of pioneers from parts unknown
Come to clear and farm this wilderness,
To bring forth from the former factory soil
Healthy food for happy villagers.
New futures are predicted all the time,
Assorted modified suns coming up
Like burning tires in different brand new dawns—
Is this the true one? Will we all end up
Growing beans and squash among the ruins
And eating mush from a communal pot?
I sure won’t be joining in. At dusk
The breeze blows and the weeds and beanstalks sway
And shadows creep from smokestacks and scarecrows
And you can sense the future in the dark,
The bouquet of surprises on the way,
Creeping closer by another day.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, David Stephenson
would be pleased to hear them.