Epilogue in Snow

The distant speck I'm taking as my model
of a man who wastes time well might say
whose woods these are, if they're not mine,
but he swerves, as I also swerve, away.

I watch the woods fill up with road, or snow;
and snow, or woodland, overflow the road.
The wind has whited out the signs
that would say who owns what's next, if anyone.

Copyright © 2004 James Richardson All rights reserved
from Interglacial
Ausable Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission