Roy Herndon Smith
Out here, on the edge
of centuries-long storms of
civilization,
long-time residents—
trees, squirrels, humans—hunker
down, holding the ground.
Invasive species—
investors, tourists—blow in,
downpouring riches,
flooding homes and nests,
clearing out the clutter of
the living milieu.
After a weekend,
a season, a century,
they blow themselves out.
The wind comes and goes,
the trees thrash and fall quiet,
the squirrels patter,
the people who stay
find their tangling ways to love,
die, and live again.
dust 