Poetry

The Pride Before, 31 (244.)

On the edge of someplace
new, sensation of artificial air washing over,
the familiar
is blown back by fresh sights.

The machinery clicks and whirs
in novel ways,
and, without being used to
the mechanical groaning and humming,
it is difficult to fall asleep.

That’s okay.

This new place
is just on the cusp of dusk,
so the shadows lie in wait behind bushes,
tittering at the thought of our surprise
when they leap up with arms outstretched.

The sun bids a slow farewell.
It’s still there, it will always be around,
but something in the air
dims its warmth and tugs at
all the leaves in the trees.
We won’t see all these changes,
not now, not immediately,
but trust when you hear
that change is coming.

Slow rotation of time
was mechanical before
machines were created.
The trees and the sun sing slow songs
that call forward to clockwork,
predicting and preceding the inventions
of proud and curious people,
and we,
we strive to echo
the steady knowledge of our home
planet.

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