The Poetry Of..
David B. McCoy............................................
THE SINGING
I've heard
...
the stories
......
of this place.
A time before roads,
...
before houses,
......
before the plow
A time when
...
the French
......
claimed this land,
and Indians
...
from surrounding tribes
......
gathered
to fish,
...
to powwow,
......
to trade prisoners.
I don't know
...
if any of it
......
is true,
but within the
...
steady rhythms
......
of Canton Drop Forge,
I swear, sometimes,
...
I can hear
......
ancient singing.
FAR NEIGHBOR
The land is more sacred
than it is beautiful.
A rain wraps itself once
about trees and stiffens.
It cracks when bent by wind.
I see my far neighbor
walking the stream as I.
Something lures us both here.
A strange old man. Seems to
know that Truth has no words.
Gray November
The color gray is what I think of
when November comes to mind
--that never-ending layer of
gray clouds; only birds void of
color rushing from one gray tree
to another; plants naked of leaves.
Don't bother with color film,
black and white will work just fine,
is what I tell our friends who plan
on taking photographs of the park.
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