I am the bud and the blossom, I am the late-falling leaf
“The Paradox” Paul Dunbar
Nothing happens eight miles from town,
where nobody passes but the geese,
deer leaving marks in the damp soil,
and neighbors fetching their mail.
No sound comes through the windows
except the calls of birds, and sometimes
hunting hounds baying across the road
where roaring trucks raise the dust.
It smells like nothing here, unless the wind
blows south from the fish factory
or wisteria blooms by the fence,
or dew is rising from the grass.
Nothing changes; every day’s the same,
except the shifting clouds, the sun’s light,
the seasons of leaf and bud, harvest
and fallow field; there’s nothing to see here.
Inspired by dVerse.