Old News

Up in the quarry you find the stack of old newspapers,
bound together by days, maybe weeks of sun and rain,
wrinkled and distorted. The headlines, those banners
shouting the news of the day, are faded,
historically invisible. Old news, like so much in your own life,
most of it not mattering today as you push forward
trying to remember what parts of you are future
and what parts are history and what mattered in the end
that has not yet arrive.

About this poem.

The picture really was taken in the quarry across from my house in West Pawlet, Vermont.

I sometimes look at my life and how much of it feels like ancient history. Interesting, but so so long ago.

Tom