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Cycles

By John I. Blair

With every turn of wheels
I roll on years of memories,
Flushing them like dry leaves.

This road is one I havenít seen
Since cows loomed stately
Out of rough-hewn fields.

I miss the froggy ponds,
The snarky farm dogs chasing me,
The wildflower-wafting breezes.

Too soon the town erupted;
Too soon the horizontal
Concrete megaliths prevailed.

For miles the houses flow
In blocks, in rows, adrift
On mollycoddled lawns.

The pastís erased.
Nowís all we have. The futureís
Onerous to contemplate.

©John I. Blair 2007

(Previously published in the September 2007 Post Oak)


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