The factory is empty now. Abandoned.
Replaced by the more efficient, left
to come slowly undone, glass cracking,
ceilings collapsing, birds laying their nest
in the open rafters and quiet.
Vines clamber through doorways.
Clapboards rot and fall off cedar beams.
Most of the machinery has been hauled away
and melted down to begin again.
There has always been an oddness to you
and your love of the abandoned places like this.
You can spend hours there, even in the smallest
of the abandoned, remembering a time you never lived in,
a life you never experienced,
mourning and celebrating both, that such life lived here
and that such life would be so easily abandoned,
so easily bought and sold.
Trees have grown here. That is how long it has been.
Trees that reach for a sky
above what was once ceilings.
They are rich and green, a new kind of life,
unmeasured by money, silent and beautiful
except for the rustling of leaves before they too fall
and winter sets in again.
About this poem.
Readers know I love abandoned places. I have a particular sympathy for them and abandoned people. I can tell you part of the whys and parts of the whys I have never been able to articulate. Maybe that is part of what I love about New England. It is full of abandoned mills, churches and homes. I always feel at home among them.
There is a cycle to things. Endings and beginnings. We can fight them or flow with them and our choices define us, lift us, or break us.
Yes, I am a bit too philosophic for breakfast time this morning. Melancholy, yet not quite. Nothing seems to be a pure feeling today. A mish-mash. A hummingbird, unable to settle.
The picture was taken near Shushan, NY.