The world is at my feet (trilogy, part II)

I pick up litter on my lawn, ‘cause this is where it stops
Winds blow fast food cups and cigarettes, to collect along my block
And then at night the drive-by’s, high school beers and sodas too.
And 20 small newspapers, with their million little adds, selling things I cannot use.
The refuse of the world is at my feet…
As drunkards stumble from the bars, and people stare out of their cars,
flying down this small town street.

The spring is late this year—it hides under the bed
Of the flowers that tried hard last year, within a few weeks they were dead
Although our cherry tree is standing, I cannot tell a lie
In the drought I could not bring myself to water, so this summer it got fried.
We had to shave our grass and flowers down.
The city wants it’s well kept lawns, so all except the quince is gone
from this patch of urban ground.

The greatest beauty we can find-
When the blooms escape our mowing blades sometimes.
And grace migrates through on swallow’s wings.
And the sunset storms roll in upon the wind like a thousand church bells ring.

We travel down the hiking trails, beyond the country miles.
Where vultures circle, waiting for some hapless creature meeting its demise…
So we hang out under the trees weighted down with mistletoe,
And pretend this ragged world could be our castle, where no other fools would go…
By the river we are shaken from this dream
We see refrigerators rust, heaps of garbage collect dust,
fall down the banks into the stream…

No matter where we choose to go,
we find we’re in the same old world we know.
Where beauty sits like birds upon a perch
and the trumpet vines will rise to fill the space when the smoggy clouds disperse.

Copyright Tracy S. Feldman, All rights reserved