Just south of Montreal, before the border,
The land is flat, and mostly used to farm.
It hosts no builder's new suburban quarter
That advertises manufactured charm,
But trees, all nude and groping for the spring,
And muddy fields, some ploughs already passed,
And little color -- almost everything
Is brown, or black. And modest. Not the vast,
Dakota-sized horizons waving grain,
But something on a more Northeastern scale,
That inexplicably feels more humane.
Though I suppose that any farm could fail
For any reason, some are still enduring.
I'm glad that these are here. It's reassuring.


Salon.com
Comments
But to be part of your morning coffee is delightful. May I recommend tangelina's post:
http://open.salon.com/blog/tangelina/2010/02/12/dads_coffee_cup
Thanks, as always, for stopping by.
But
It makes my eyes tear over a little still, just to write that.
And a wonderful poem. Glad Scupper found you and gave you some more exposure
~R~
Hi Pavanne: That's so nice to hear. It may be because of the image that triggered the first line: the afternoon sun reflecting off of standing water, in plowed mud. It had a funny, just-before-the-season feeling of awakening. And not a strip mall in sight.
Hi FusunA: I do like your city and enjoyed my stay. And I love that it is still buffered, very closely, by farmland. That's very unusual in the Northeast anymore. I'll be back.